


A More Perfect Union

by holograms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Pining, Politics, Post Duel, Slow Burn, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 261,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton survives the duel. He gets more time, and Burr does too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aaron I

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about writing this fic for _months_ , since last year, and I'm so glad I'm finally making it a thing. It'll be slow burn hamburr, and other things too, so be ready for that. Relationships and political drama too. At least 40 chapters total? Who knows. It will become more explicit in the future. I hope to update at least once a week. The title is shamelessly taken from the Preamble to the United States Constitution.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

Aaron isn’t sure if he intended to kill Hamilton or not.

What Aaron does know: he purposely took aim at Hamilton, with vengeance on his mind and anger blazing through his veins and misery heavy in his heart. He intended to shoot Hamilton — that much is true. Aaron wanted to stop him, _needed_ to stop him. Not necessarily kill him, but make him stop. To admit anything else would be an untruth.

However, Hamilton did not intend to kill him, or even fire at him; his shot goes off into the air, the boom of it overlapping with Aaron’s panicked shout of, _“Wait!”_

But it’s too late. It had been too late for a long time.

Aaron gets his answer when Hamilton crumbles to the ground. For a moment, Aaron’s entire world stops as he waits, _begs_ for Hamilton to move — and that’s when he knows that it was a mistake. He doesn’t want to Hamilton to die. He doesn't want him to die. Suddenly, the thought of a life without Alexander Hamilton in it is incomprehensible. He wonders how he could have been so blinded not to have realized that, before.

It feels like a lifetime, but Aaron knows it must be only a few seconds; Hamilton curses in pain and he’s sprawled on the ground but he’s _alive_ and Aaron lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

But his next breath catches in his throat when he sees Hamilton clutch at his body and his hand come away wet with blood.

_No no no—_

He is only ten paces away, but it might as well be the distance of an ocean — he drops his pistol and goes towards Hamilton, putting one shaky step in front of the other. He’s in a daze, people are shouting, it’s chaos, but he can’t focus on anything except getting to Hamilton. Someone tugs on his arm, but he shoves them away. 

“I must go and speak to him,” Aaron says, desperate. Can’t they see? He has to tell Alexander…he has to tell him…

The person grips his arm tighter, insistent, hisses, “Burr, listen to me!”

Aaron breaks his gaze at Hamilton to turn to look at the person, and he sees Van Ness staring back at him. That’s right — he had almost forgot Van Ness is there, that there is someone other than Hamilton and himself in this nightmare.

Van Ness’ expression is half horror and half shock, he’s looking at him like he can’t believe that Aaron actually carried it out. Honestly, Aaron is surprised, too.

Aaron jerks his arm away from his grasp, but he stays put. He hears Hamilton cry out in pain. He forces himself not to flinch.

“Burr, we’ve got to leave, now,” Van Ness says, panicked. “They’re coming to arrest you, man,” he adds, urgently, and then gestures out to the Hudson.

Aaron follows his line of sight over to the water. He blinks; the sun is in his eyes, it’s now fully over the horizon and it glints off the water. When his vision clears, sure enough, he sees the distant form of a boat rowing quickly in their direction.

Turning back to Van Ness, Aaron replies, “Perhaps I should let them arrest me.” He still can’t look back at Hamilton. “If I’m not guilty for this, I surely am for something else. Peccant.”

“Good God.” Van Ness sighs as he grabs Aaron’s arm again, and Aaron wishes he would really stop doing that. He prickles, but Van Ness continues, “When I agreed to be your second, I didn’t think I’d actually have to _save_ your melodramatic ass.”

Aaron begins to say something in return but Van Ness catches Aaron off guard and pulls him from where he’s rooted to the ground and drags Aaron away, away from the dueling grounds, away from Hamilton. Aaron struggles, tries to resist, but he stumbles and lest another embarrassment of falling flat on his face, he lets himself be led away.

When he takes one last look over his shoulder, he can’t even see Hamilton because he’s hidden by the people crowding around him. He wonders if Hamilton is still alive.

As he flees the Weehawken shore, there’s one more thing that Aaron knows: the world will never be the same.

 

* * * 

 

After, Aaron gets a drink. _Drinks,_ multiple. He gets really really drunk, never mind the fact that it’s not even ten in the morning.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Van Ness says, leaning forward on the table, his voice hardly above a whisper. “If someone saw you here at a tavern after...” His voice trails off, and then bites his lip because he’s unable to say it. _After you shot Hamilton_. “They may get the wrong idea.”

Aaron scoffs. He doubts it. While the bartender has been eyeing them suspiciously for the last half hour, Aaron attributes it to that fact that he and Van Ness are the only ones in here, and not because he recognizes him as the Vice President of America. He is not prominent in the public’s attention — Jefferson has made sure of that. It’s difficult to outshine Jefferson, with his bouncy hair and passionate ideologies; if anyone remembers Aaron after the disastrous election of 1800, they know him as the guy who _lost._ Aaron’s place in office has not reaped him any rewards, nothing apart from the knowledge and the suffering of the _almost_. Aaron has a title, but no claim. _Next best_ means nothing, and if he were honest, he’d rather have nothing at all than the consolation prize to the presidency.

He expects it to be different soon, except that his fame will be that of notoriety. It’s fitting that Hamilton will be the cause for this, too. First, Hamilton slandered Aaron’s name for any chance of furthering his career, and now Hamilton will leave him dishonored despite it is honor that Aaron had been trying to protect.

 _That’s your own damn fault_ , Aaron can’t help but think. He shakes it away, as he’s been doing since that morning.

Aaron downs the rest of his glass, and sets it on the table with a clink.

“Tell me, William,” Aaron says, dryly. “What is it that someone could get the wrong _idea_ about?”

Van Ness makes that strained face he gets when he really doesn’t want to tell the truth because it’s something Aaron is not going to want to hear but he’s conflicted because he also wants to tell Aaron because he isn’t going to know otherwise and worries Aaron is going to make a fool out of himself. “Well,” Van Ness begins, and traces with his forefinger a circular water stain on the table made from a previous drinker’s mug. “From an outsider’s perspective, it could be seen that perhaps, maybe, not that I necessarily think this, but—”

“Out with it,” Aaron presses. He doesn’t have time for this. Not that he has anywhere to go, but.

Van Ness lets out a sigh. “Someone could think that you’re gloating,” he says. “That you’re glad about the events that, uh, transpired. In Weehawken.”

Again with the not talking about what happened. Aaron blinks, sees Hamilton bleeding into the dirt.

“I am celebrating,” Aaron mumbles.

“You’re _what?_ ”

Aaron smirks. The utter shock on Van Ness’ face is priceless.

“I’m celebrating the end of my career,” Aaron says. “There’s no reviving it now.”

Van Ness buries his face in his hands. “Oh my _God_.” He complains so loudly and raggedly that the bartender increases his discreet staring to a full-on glare.

And Van Ness always says that Aaron is the dramatic one.

Aaron points to Van Ness’ untouched whiskey in front of him. “Are you going to have that?”

Even though Van Ness only peeks through his fingers, it’s enough to make Aaron feel shamed.

He drinks the whiskey anyway.

“You’re going to die,” Van Ness says, putting his hands in his lap as he watches Aaron slam the glass on to the table. A beat later he winces. “Shit, sorry. Poor choice of words.”

It takes Aaron a moment to realize why he’s apologizing.

“I’m not the one with a gunshot wound,” Aaron says, harsh, and he pats his chest like he’s proving he’s unscathed. “And Hamilton isn’t dead _yet._ ” And to Aaron, he will remain that way until he hears otherwise.

He motions to the bartender to bring him another drink. Van Ness gives Aaron a disapproving look, but he doesn’t dare comment. The occasion calls for drinking — Aaron shot his…he can’t quite call Hamilton his _enemy_ , but they haven’t been friends for a long while.  So.

“ _Are_ you gloating?” Van Ness asks, waiting until the bartender leaves their table. This time, the whole damn bottle is left behind. “Are you pleased with the results of your duel?”

Aaron pours until the drink threatens to spill over the edge. His hand is steady as he picks up the glass and brings it to his mouth. The whiskey goes down smooth. At this point, it’s mechanical. Consume enough to prolong the numbness.

“I was the one who requested the challenge,” Aaron says, slurred. “All is fair, according to the code.”

“Fuck the code,” Van Ness says, leaning in with his hands flat on the table. “I _know_ you, Burr. Your aloof manner isn’t going to fly this time.” Tone lowering, more concerned, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Aaron blinks. The forwardness surprises him, and he isn’t really sure what to say — the alcohol and trauma of the morning clouds his mind. 

Van Ness continues, “I know that at one point, you and Hamilton were—”

“No.”

“—friendly terms…what?”

“No,” Aaron repeats. “I am not okay. I’m pretty fucking miserable, but thanks for asking.” He slouches in his seat. “I shot Hamilton.” It’s the first time he’s said it, and the confession gives him no relief.

“I know, I was there.”

Aaron shoots Van Ness a glare. Van Ness tries to smile, and he runs his hand over his closely shaved head, says, “Sorry?”

“It’s okay,” Aaron lies. Nothing is okay.

Aaron thinks of Hamilton, he thinks of the first time he met him — when Hamilton found _him._ A naïve, but experienced man— _kid_ , age nineteen, ready to impress the world or die trying, and all he wanted was Aaron’s help.

And look how far they’ve come. How far they’ve fallen.

He must appear troubled because Van Ness offers a more genuine smile and reaches across the table to pat his arm. Van Ness looks as uncomfortable about it as Aaron feels.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Van Ness assures him. He doesn’t sound completely convinced. He’s never been a good liar.

“I shot him,” Aaron says again in the same hushed tone. “I don’t want him to die,” he admits, because it doesn’t matter what his intentions were — he has to face the very real possibility that Hamilton may die as a result of their collateral damage, and himself left branded forever as the man who killed Hamilton.

Van Ness lets his hand fall from Aaron, and then takes Aaron’s glass, drinks the remaining whiskey in it, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and then returns the glass in front of Aaron.

“I’m gonna go,” Van Ness says, standing and buttoning his coat. “I’ve got to clear up…” He pauses, and waves his hand in Aaron’s general direction. “This. Make a statement. Consult with Hamilton’s man. Whatever.” He walks a couple steps and then turns back to Aaron. “Lay low.”

“I am.”

“Don’t drink yourself to death.”

“Sure,” Aaron says, and pours himself another shot just to be contrary.

“Don’t do something stupid.”

“I’m _not_.”

“I meant, don’t do something _else_ stupid.”

“Do you really have so little faith in me?”

As Aaron had hoped, his question leaves Van Ness without response — the man throws his hands in the air and departs without another word.

Aaron is alone.

Now, Aaron does what he does best (except for the one time when it mattered most): wait.

 

* * *

 

Aaron keeps his promise to Van Ness, and doesn’t drink himself to death. He’s pretty sure that Van Ness told the bartender to keep an eye on him because around lunchtime he brings Aaron a bowl of soup and some bread, saying, “This is on the house.” Or perhaps he took pity on Aaron’s pathetic, lonesome day drinking and staring out the window and not moving for hours.

He stumbles out of the tavern sometime after three in the afternoon, and in his drunkenness he manages to find a room to rent. It’s shabby, but nondescript, which is what Aaron is going for — he’s trying to lay low, after all — and he’s too exhausted to care about the appearance of his lodgings.

He has enough sense to give a pseudonym when checking in. He’s anxious for a moment that he’ll get called out on it, but the innkeeper is too distracted—

“Did you hear?” the innkeeper asks. “Alexander Hamilton was injured in a duel with Aaron Burr!”

“Huh.” Vague fascination seems like the best approach. Even though it makes Aaron’s skin itch. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah,” the innkeeper continues, and then frowns. “Damn that lowlife Burr.”

Aaron sways a little, holds onto the counter. “Isn’t Burr the Vice President?”

The innkeeper looks thoughtful for a moment, and then says, “I suppose.” He shrugs, and slides the key over to Aaron. “Rest up. I’ll have a paper for you in the morning to read the news.”

Aaron grunts in reply. He can’t trust himself to say anything more. He can’t decide if he’s more offended about the guy insulting him, or that he’s gossiping about private matters between him and Hamilton.

The room matches the run-down atmosphere of the lobby, and most days Aaron probably wouldn’t have let his coat touch the suspicious-looking blanket on the bed, but today he doesn’t give a shit. Caring is difficult. He doesn’t even lock the door behind him; he trudges to bed and collapses onto it, fully clothed.

 

* * *

 

He figures that he must’ve fallen asleep at some point (after hours of wide-awake anxiety of thinking of every mistake he’s ever made — make an itemized list of _that —_  and then rationalizing each with himself), because something bangs against the door and startles him awake from a dreamless sleep.

When he opens the door, there’s nobody there, however there’s a newspaper on the floor, as promised. Aaron’s head spins when he bends to pick it up — one of the worst hangovers he’s ever had — but it’s nothing compared to how his heart pounds in his chest as he unfolds the paper to read the headline.

_July 12 th — Hamilton Lives Yet Another Day_

Aaron almost weeps with relief.

He reads the rest of the article in his room, using the sunlight streaming through the small filthy window as a light source. From the report, it seems that while Hamilton still draws breath, but he isn’t completely out of the woodwork yet; the bullet struck him in the side and he’s lost a lot of blood. Aaron remembers from his time in the war that that is decidedly not good.

After he reads about Hamilton’s condition, he scans the rest for mention of himself. The most insulting thing is the comment, _it’s a good thing the Colonel Burr is not a skillful marksman or else Hamilton would be deceased._

Aaron frowns. Did they not consider the possibility that he’s actually a _very_ good shot and intended to hit him where he did on purpose?

Regardless of his intentions (in retrospect, they’ve never been the best, especially when it pertains to Hamilton), this is something Aaron has to contend with. That Hamilton could—

No. He will not consider that. Cannot consider that.

Aaron knows that death doesn’t discriminate, that it takes without asking, but he prays for the first time in a long time — _please do not take Hamilton._


	2. Alexander I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for the very positive response and your interest! It means so much to me and it makes me very happy. Y'all are awesome.
> 
> But, surprise! Now it's Hamilton's POV now. So, it's going to switch back and forth with his and Burr's throughout the story. It's something I've thought of from the start when thinking of this fic. Double the angst, yeah?
> 
> So many thanks to [videogamedoc87](http://archiveofourown.org/users/videogamedoc87) for reassuring me that I am not making a Mistake for doing both Ham and Burr's perspectives, and for letting me talk out plot things to make sure they make sense. And for reading this over and offering suggestions. Many thanks. The most.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you all again for reading!

Alexander isn’t sure if Burr intended to kill him or not.

The thought occurs to Alexander during a wave of pain, but he entertains the possibility for only a moment. He highly doubts that Burr wants — wanted — him dead. Burr may be cold but he isn’t unfeeling by any means (in fact, he feels _too_ much, and that’s what Alexander blames for this whole mess — Burr had his goddamn feelings hurt), and Alexander will never forget how quickly Burr’s fury shifted to despair when he realized that he had hurt Alexander. Regret flickered across his face, real genuine horror at the irreparable damage he had brought upon them both.

Alexander really hadn’t believed that Burr had had it in him to carry out the duel, much less _shoot_ him. He figured that Burr would attempt peace once more, because that’s what Burr has always treasured more: compromise, over confrontation. No need to make an unwarranted fuss, and usually, don’t make an objection even when it _is_ warranted. Passive.

But this time, this time Burr didn’t — he came to the dueling grounds with a purpose, and Alexander had to rise to the challenge or risk tarnishing his honor.

Alexander doesn’t understand Burr, even after all this time. But what’s the fun in that, knowing each move the other is going to make? Then Alexander wouldn’t have the chance to be so surprised about _this_. Alexander would almost be proud of Burr if the result of Burr finally taking a stance didn’t result in the bullet-sized hole in his body.

Because Burr shot him. 

And Alexander threw away his shot.

He keeps forgetting that.

Nevertheless, Burr is unimportant. Alexander is dying.

Nobody has said it in those exact words, but Alexander knows. He knew it as he was quickly rowed back across the Hudson; he knew it as he bleed into the Weehawken dirt; he knew it when Burr shouted, “Wait” as the bullet ripped through him and knocked him down. He is dying — that is a fact _._

It’s nothing new. Alexander has been dying since the moment he was born.

And he can’t outrun death anymore. He has nothing left to bargain with.

“Don’t you _dare_ say that.”

The reprimand is sharp in his ear, bringing him out of his thoughts, and when Alexander turns to look there’s his Eliza at his side. Of course; she’s always there when he needs her most. Looking at her, he swears his pain ebbs away.

He didn’t know he had said anything aloud, but judging by Eliza’s affronted expression, he had spoken his confession of death finally catching up to him. He feels bad to have upset her by speaking of the truth in such a macabre manner, but she needs to know. Eliza is strong. Far stronger than himself, he admits. But still.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander says, mournful. His own voice sounds distant, detached. “The worst part is leaving you, my dear.” He tries to grab her hand but he can’t seem to make his arms work. His body is a cage. A pathetic sob catches in his throat. He can’t remember the last time he held her hand. “ _Betsey._ ”

Eliza does what he cannot do, and calmly takes his hand in her smaller, delicate one. Right now it feels like a lifeline keeping him tethered to this world.

“You’re going to be fine,” Eliza says.

“I don’t think so.” He takes in a deep, wheeze-lined breath. “This is one battle I cannot win.”

She shakes her head, says, “That doesn’t sound like the Alexander I know.”

“I’d like to meet this other Alexander,” he says. He’s hoping for a smile. That’d be nice. Instead, a tear runs down her cheek.

“Stay alive,” Eliza begs. No — demands.

Alexander can’t help but feel guilty when he thinks of how many times she’s asked this of him. _Stay alive._

“I don’t know if I can, this time,” Alexander admits. It hurts so badly, and he is so so tired.

“Please, Alexander,” is asked of him, but it’s not Eliza who says it, he knows that voice, and his eyes flit up to see Angelica next to Eliza. He smiles; he’s glad that in the end she is with him as well.

“Yes ma’am,” Alexander says, his grin broadening when she returns his smile, but he flinches in pain and then nobody is smiling anymore. 

It’s then that he becomes aware that there are other people in the room with him other than Eliza and Angelica. At his side, a doctor prods at Alexander’s upper abdomen, curses, and Alexander feels something inside him shift. Alexander goes to look down at his probable mangled body, but Angelica catches his chin with her hand and forces him to keep looking at her and Eliza.

“Don’t look,” Angelica says, which she should know that makes him want to look even _more._ He tries to tell her this but the words get stuck in his throat, he chokes on them, he can’t breathe, panic claws at his chest and he feels blood soaking into the sheets, the smell of it is overwhelming and he’s _dying,_  oh God, he—

“It’s okay, honey,” Eliza says, “Focus on us. Breathe. Just like that. Good.” She talks him through it, through the pain and through the fear, lets him squeeze her hand with a death grip as there’s another jolt of pain and she doesn’t even flinch. She rubs her thumb over the back of his hand, shushes and coos at him like she’s calming a distressed animal.

It works — he calms, his pulse slows, he refocuses.

There are a lot of things he wants to say, _needs_ to say. He forces the words out by sheer will because he feels time slipping away, quicker now than it ever has, so he talks and talks and talks. He talks over people discussing things like _exit wound_ and _infection_ and _his goddamn pride._ He thinks that he may doze off a few times, but he keeps talking through it, or perhaps he dreams of speaking, and when he wakes he continues where he left off. He can’t waste one moment. Not even when his precious children visit him (Phil and Lizzie and William and James and John and Alex and Angie — and Philip, he’ll be seeing him soon). _Be smart,_ he tells them. _You’re the best part of me. Be good for your mother. I love you._

He’s running out of time.

He asks for last communion, and either the others want to appease him or they can’t deny it any longer, that he is going to die. He has to beg for it, beg for the absolution of his soul.

“Yes,” Alexander says. “I denounce dueling. I made a mistake. I promise not to duel ever again, for as long as I shall live.” Which seems kind of purposeless at this point, but whatever it takes.

“Do you forgive Burr?”

Ah, Burr. So he is the last barrier before free passage into heaven.

“Yes, I forgive Aaron,” Alexander says, without thought. He doesn’t have to think about the answer because it’s true — he doesn’t hold any ill will against him. Burr had been angry. Alexander understands, he had been angry for most of his life (but he isn’t angry now, his heart is the least troubled it’s been since he was a child). 

“Please get word to Burr,” Alexander says. “Tell him…tell him…”

There is so much he wants to say to him, like, _remember when we said duels were dumb and immature? What happened to us? Ha! We were naïve then, or maybe we are more naïve now._

Alexander thinks of the last time he saw Burr — Burr struggling to get to Alexander from across the dueling grounds. Pendleton had feared that maybe Burr was trying to finish the job, to make sure he was dead, but Alexander knew better. Burr was trying to tell him something, and Alexander had watched on in interest at Burr’s struggle until he was too busy bleeding to death. He had forgot about that moment until just now, and he supposes he’ll never know what Burr was trying to say.

“Inform Burr of my forgiveness,” Alexander says, “and tell him _I know.”_

“Just those words?” Eliza asks, her eyebrows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“He’ll know,” Alexander mumbles.

He and Burr — their lives have been so tragically intertwined, there’s no way that he wouldn’t know.

And if Burr doesn’t — well then, Alexander won’t know any different, and it’ll leave Burr with a lifelong mystery to brood over.

 

* * *

 

The Other Side is close — Alexander slides into it every time he closes his eyes.

It had been frightening at first, but now it’s a comfort. The darkness becomes light, and he doesn’t hurt — not his body or mind or heart. Each time he lingers longer, and each time it’s more difficult to leave and return to the world he is familiar with — the only thing that makes him keep going back is Eliza.

It would be so easy to let go. Let the promise of rest overtake him. Has he done enough?

“Stay alive,” Eliza whispers, from somewhere else.

Alexander has almost given up on trying. He can’t fight the inevitable. He knows that Eliza will understand.

On the Other Side, there’s a ship, not unlike the one that took him on his journey to America. It’s on open water, and the horizon stretches out to some unreachable place. Alexander knows that he’s not in what he supposes he can call his _waking_ life, because being on this ship doesn’t fill him with nervous dread like the open water has for his entire adult life. Fire consumes, ignites; but water consumes, oppresses, fills your lungs and silences. It is destructive — it can wipe away an entire city in a flash of a storm, or erode a cliff over the course of years. Because of this, Alexander has always kept a respectful distance from the element. It took every ounce of courage Alexander had to travel across the vast sea to his new home, and as soon as he stepped foot on American soil he had said never again will he cross the ocean. 

But in this Other Side, he is on the sea — but it’s a different place that he’s leaving. He leans over the rail, wind whipping his hair around, but everything is silent. Silent except for— 

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Alexander knows that voice. He could never forget, even after a lifetime.

“John?” Alexander whispers, hopeful, and he turns and there’s Laurens — and Alexander’s heart _sings._ Laurens looks exactly as he remembers, young and fiery and handsome, and he’s dressed in his continental uniform like he’s ready to go off to war.

It’s a welcome sight, and Alexander goes to embrace him, but Laurens shrugs away his touch, as if he’s angry with him.

“Don’t, please,” Alexander begs. “This isn’t easy.”

“You’re not supposed to _be_ here,” Laurens says again, obviously frustrated. “It’s not your time.”

Alexander laughs. “Well, I wish someone would’ve told me that. How embarrassing to show up early.”

Laurens sighs, long and drawn out, like how he used to do when he complained about Alexander being extra difficult or not taking him seriously enough and _oh_ , Alexander has missed that. He offers Laurens a smile, and Laurens just rolls his eyes and stands next to him and looks out into the nothingness. 

“Alexander,” Laurens says, sharp, like a warning. “Is it what you thought? Death?”

“I’ve never thought about it before,” Alexander lies. He doesn’t put in effort in making it sound convincing because he knows that Laurens knows it’s a lie. “Am I dead?”

Laurens shakes his head. “Not quite. This is…” His voice trails off, and then continues, “It’s like a stopping point. Where you either move on, or not. A place between life and death. It’s where you have to make a choice.”

“Oh.” Alexander can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved. Perhaps a little of both.

“Your death wish was always mild,” Laurens says, mildly amused. “Your desire to outlive it was greater. So, what changed?”

“I’m tired.” It’s the simplest answer. How can Alexander explain that no matter how much time he has, he’s going to always want more? So it’s best to stop while he’s ahead.

“Bad excuse,” Laurens scoffs. “We won’t let you.”

Alexander is about to ask who he means, but then he feels a presence behind him, warm but intense, thrumming in his chest stronger and stronger until he acknowledges it. He doesn’t want to, because he knows if he _sees_ it will be even more difficult to choose between _here_ where he can have everything he’s lost, and _there_ where there’s everything he hasn’t lost yet, but he has to look, he has to know, he always has.

A sob catches in his throat — Philip is on the Other Side, he’s with his mother on the Other Side, Washington is watching from the Other Side. With every moment Alexander is here, on the Other Side, the surroundings become clearer, and he’s slipping further and further away from what he’s known, and the want to stay alive fades.

Laurens says, “There is more work to be done.”

Philip says, “You can’t leave them.”

His mother says, “I am so proud of you.”

Washington says, “Your story isn’t finished yet, son.”

Alexander’s heart aches, he doesn’t want to disappoint them but he wants to be selfish, he wants to stay. He’s had enough loss and suffering and tribulation in his life. He deserves this. 

“I’m ready,” Alexander says, ready to be dragged under, to let the tide wash over. He’s left a legacy. It doesn’t matter what becomes of it, he isn’t worried anymore — after all, you cannot control who lives, who dies, who tells your story.

“I’m out of time,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

He closes his eyes to wait for it to come. The end. He is not afraid. He has prepared his whole life for this, to die.

 _“Not yet,”_ he hears Washington say, and—

—Alexander feels himself yanked from that place, and he’s gasping for breath and pain floods his body and he hurts everywhere but he’s alive, he’s alive and he knows that the Other Side is out of reach. He had been so so close, he can still feel the welcome embrace of it in his soul, but there’s also the searing pain of it being ripped away too soon.

He opens his eyes. He’s back where he started. The world can’t help but feel smaller, now.

At least Eliza and Angelica are here. They hold his hand, brush back his sweaty hair, kiss him sweetly, tell him that they love him.

“Welcome back,” Angelica says.

“You’re going to be okay,” Eliza says.

Alexander cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a true fact that Hamilton's family had to go around looking for someone to give him last rites, because nobody wanted to grant him it because of _why_ Hamilton was dying. tragic.


	3. Aaron II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron remains off the grid for one week after the duel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh thank you for all the super nice comments and excitement! I'm flabbergasted, honestly. It makes the plotting of this worth it. I treaure each comment and message! So, thank you for that <3
> 
> So this chapter is longer than the previous two chapters combined. This is probably more like the length the rest will be (with a few exceptions) because I don't know how to shut up!!! Anyway. This chapter features human disaster Aaron Burr. Enjoy.

Aaron remains off the grid for one week after the duel. It is the longest week in his life. 

It’s around day three that he realizes that he probably should have planned this better. He has only the clothes on his back and his wallet and a quickly dwindling amount of money and his damaged pride and the feeling of gunpowder on his fingers that doesn’t seem to leave no matter how many times his cleans his hands. He limits himself to one meal a day, and he doesn’t indulge drink or other luxuries. He lies low, as Van Ness had so wisely instructed. Aaron is good at being inconspicuous — he’s made a career of it.

On the third day, he writes a coded letter to Theo to tell her of his whereabouts and to let her know that he is okay, alive. He leaves out mention of his disquietude or the squalid living conditions he’s in, but she must’ve read between the lines for the unspoken, because he receives a response on the fifth day of his hide out with the message of, _a friend will be there soon to bring you home when it is safe. Things will be sorted, do not worry._

So Aaron waits. The isolation gives him time to think about why he’s in this situation in the first place. He had not thought much about the outcome — Aaron had believed that the only option would be for Hamilton to concede, and that all matters would be sorted between them. That was what Aaron wanted. He himself dying wasn’t an option, and the idea of killing Hamilton was unfathomable.

But Aaron never gets what he wants.

However, he is granted one mercy. Someone must’ve heard his pleas, because Hamilton lives. Aaron had thought that Hamilton might die just to spite him, but then Aaron blocks that awful intrusive thought and prays for a miracle.

Hamilton can’t die, Aaron can’t be responsible for his death.

Aaron has a rush of adrenaline every morning when he reads paper because every time he fears that it’ll be different, that Hamilton will have passed. But the report continues to be the same, although vague — they categorize Hamilton as strictly _not dead_. Aaron can’t decide if the lack of information is a good or bad thing.

On the fifth day, Aaron has to search through the paper to find a mention of Hamilton’s status. Since the duel, news of Hamilton’s condition has been covered extensively, but today, nothing. He flips through the pages, fearing the worst — although logically he knows that if Hamilton had died it would be front-page news. 

He gets to the end of the paper without finding anything. He frets over the fact that he’ll have to go without updates on Hamilton’s health, because _then_ what will he do with all his free time?

He decides to search through the newspaper again. He licks his thumb, grimaces at the taste of ink, and then scans the pages more thoroughly. He almost gives up but then he catches a glimpse of Hamilton’s name. It’s no wonder he had missed it, it’s only a small paragraph at the bottom of page six that gives the same information as the previous days, _Alexander Hamilton continues to recover from injuries that he obtained in his duel with Vice Pres. Aaron Burr which took place on the 11th of July in Weehawken, NJ. He is in stable condition but—_ and so on.

Aaron supposes that it’s old news, now.

He skips the slightly bigger article that’s on the opposite page that discusses the ethics of dueling, using Aaron as an example of condemnation.

Aaron lives his days around news of Hamilton. The only time he leaves the room is to step into the hall to accept his daily meal, and to pick up the paper that’s left for him. It’s a cycle — he reads about Hamilton, breathes a sigh of relief; eats the mediocre meal; sleeps away the hot part of the day, lying in bed wearing only his shirt; wakes up some time after midnight, alone; stays awake and thinks of how it could have gone differently; then the paper is delivered and it starts all over again. It’s his own Sisyphean task.

It changes on the seventh day.

He’s confused when he wakes up — it’s still daylight, and then he realizes that someone is knocking on his door. He sits up in bed and has a flash of panic that someone is there to arrest him, because really it had only been a matter of time. He contemplates facing the charges, or testing his agility and escaping out the window, but then he hears a familiar voice say, “Damn it, Burr, open the door, or I will break it down!” and then remembers Theo’s promise that someone would come fetch him when the time is right.

Aaron groans, crawls out of bed, pulls on his breeches, and walks barefoot over to the door and opens it to reveal an exasperated and frazzled Van Ness on the other side.

Van Ness sighs and leans against the doorframe. “Thank God. I thought you might have died in there,” he says, and then his eyes widen as he takes in Aaron’s appearance. “Dude, you look awful.”

Aaron runs his hand over week-old stubble, looks down at his wrinkled shirt, and supposes that Van Ness is right, so he turns back into the room without response. Van Ness huffs, follows him and shuts the door behind him, saying, “In your letter to your daughter, you failed to mention which room number you were staying in.”

“I didn’t have the time,” Aaron says, flippant.

There’s an awkward moment where Van Ness stares him down, as if daring Aaron to come up with a better excuse. Aaron’s only defense is a shrug. Van Ness sighs, letting Aaron win this round. 

“Anyway,” Van Ness continues, looking away from Aaron and around the room. He wrinkles his nose at the surroundings. “I asked the innkeeper which room contained the pathetic man who hasn’t came out all week.  He knew exactly who I was talking about.”

“That’s my image,” Aaron says, the self-deprecation easy. “Wretched. Unlikeable. Don’t forget _murderous._ ” And that’s only a sample from what the public has been calling him. He doesn’t make it a habit of taking the opinion of others to heart, he lets insults roll of his back, but these words rattle in his brain and stick to the insides of his ribcage, etch into the fabric of his being. Perhaps because he believes he rightfully earned them.

Van Ness’ expression softens. He blinks, and stammers, “I’m sorry—”

Aaron waves his hand dismissively. “Already forgotten.” He smiles; Van Ness doesn’t return it. Van Ness is one of the few people who his _smile more_ act doesn’t fool, the other being—

“So, what’s the situation in New York?” Aaron asks, desperate to change the subject. “How’s Ha—”

His voice cracks. He clears his throat. He can’t say his name. His chest aches, a phantom bullet lodged inside.

He tries again, “How is he?”

Van Ness has enough sense to leave the change of phrasing be.

“It’s a shit storm,” Van Ness says, and he flops down on the edge of Aaron’s bed and heaves out a guttural exhale, like he’s the one who has the burden of someone’s life on his hands. Aaron glares at him and raises a brow at his self-assumed hospitality, but he says nothing, because at the moment Van Ness is the man with the answers. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Just…a lot has happened.” Van Ness tugs at his collar, takes a deep breath. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Hamilton is still alive and kicking.” He pauses. “Well, he’s not kicking anything, he doesn’t have the strength for that, but he hasn’t kicked the bucket either, so…that’s good?” The end of the sentence is hitched, like it’s a question, and Van Ness narrows his eyes at Aaron. “Right?”

“Of _course_ that’s a good thing,” Aaron responds, curt. It’s the _best_ thing. His mistake didn’t have too big of a consequential effect.

“Wonderful,” Van Ness says, his face lighting up at the confirmation that his friend isn’t what others have accused him of. “I never doubted you, I knew that you weren’t—”

“William, _please_.” Aaron gestures to the stack of papers on the nightstand. “I’ve been keeping up, but I was hoping you could tell me more as I’ve kind of been in the dark here.” 

“Yes. Right. Okay.” Van Ness claps his hands together in an enthusiasm that makes Aaron sigh. Van Ness says, “I met with Pendleton, and we both agreed that both you and Hamilton approached the duel as gentlemen, and followed the code.” He bites his lip, his expression falling, and then adds, “We couldn’t come to an agreement on who fired first.”

Aaron nods. It’s a verbatim telling of what was published in the newspaper a couple days ago. Aaron doesn’t say anything because he has nothing to con tribute — he isn’t sure who fired first, either. He had been so wrapped up in his own mind, that he didn’t realize that Hamilton wasn’t aiming at him until after his finger pulled the trigger.

“Hamilton doesn’t know who shot first, either. If that makes you feel better,” Van Ness says.

It doesn’t. It feels like the unknown is going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

“What else?” Aaron prompts.

“I visited him yesterday. You know, Hamilton,” Van Ness says, as though the clarification is needed. “I actually intended to go the day before yesterday, but I got lost on my way uptown and then I didn’t want to call on them too late because I know they have young children and—”

“I swear to God, Van Ness, I may still end up killing a man if you don’t tell me what happened.”

“Okay, okay. Chill. Jesus.” Van Ness holds up his hands in mock defeat, and then places them in his lap. “So like I said, I visited Hamilton. I can assure you with my own two eyes that he is, in fact, alive. He seems to be in good spirits, but it’s the least I’ve ever heard the man say. That could just be because I’m your man, though.” He furrows his brows, obviously just now thinking of that possibility. He mutters unintelligibly but then gasps. “Oh shit, I almost forgot!”

Van Ness abruptly stops and reaches inside his coat, and pulls out an envelope. “He gave me this to give to you.” He holds it out to Aaron and shakes it. “He was really insistent that I made sure you received it.”

Aaron steps forward from his place on the wall to take the envelope from Van Ness. He studies it; it’s light, so it mustn’t be a long message, and the address of _A. Burr_ is not in Hamilton’s handwriting. There were enough of Hamilton’s scribbles on Aaron’s case notes for Aaron to commit Hamilton’s titled script to memory.

He places the letter on top of the stack of a week’s worth of newspaper. He had wished for something more than those printed third-hand accounts of Hamilton, but now that he has something directly from him he can’t bear to find out what he has to say to him. Accusation? A plea for _why?_ Another list of disagreements? His fingers hover the envelope, barely brushing against the fine stationery as he contemplates reading it.

His hand trembles. He clenches his fist to quell it.

Aaron’s hesitation does not go unnoticed.

“If I had to guess the contents of that letter,” Van Ness slowly says, “I would surmise that it ain’t too bad.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Aaron snaps. He hears Van Ness let out a quiet injured sound and mutter, _I’m just trying to help_.  Aaron feels bad, he knows that Van Ness has done much more then necessary, so he takes a deep breath and says, “It is what it is.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to get so touchy.” Van Ness looks down at his lap and fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “Because Hamilton told me himself that he forgives you. So.” 

“What?” Aaron asks, because he heard the words but he just can’t believe them — because if it had been the reverse, if Aaron had aimed toward the sky and Hamilton shot _him_ , Aaron doesn’t think he could find it within him to forgive him. After all, he couldn’t even forgive Hamilton for slandering his name. An attempt on his life, no matter how honor-bound — is unforgivable.

“I’m not saying it again,” Van Ness says, stern. “That’s something that you’re going to have to deal with yourself. After I bring you back home, I’m done. You hear me? _Done._ ”

Aaron smirks. “No, you aren’t.”

Van Ness sighs, and slumps. “Damn it. You’re right. But still!” he says, pointing accusingly at Aaron, “Sort your shit out.”

Aaron waves him off, like _yeah yeah._ It’s something he’ll deal with later — for now, he stores it away.

“So is that all of the, ah, _shit storm_ that you mentioned?” he asks.

Van Ness cringes. “Not exactly?” He wrings his hands together. “Promise you won’t shoot the messenger?” he asks, then groans and covers his face with his hands. “Oh, fuck. I did it again, bad phrasing. I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says. “I’m sure whatever you have to say can’t be much worse than what’s already happened.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, because in his experience, things can always _always_ be worse. 

Regaining his composure, Van Ness begins, “Jefferson, man. He’s—” He stops to make a motion with his hands that Aaron assumes to mean _crazy_ , which is no surprise regarding Thomas Jefferson. Van Ness continues, rushed. “He’s on his way up from the Capitol. Word on the street is…”

_“What?”_

“He wants to ruin you,” Van Ness says.

“What a surprise,” Aaron dryly says. When Van Ness makes a frustrated noise, Aaron adds, “Jefferson has been ruining my reputation since we’ve been in office. This is nothing new. You know this.”

Van Ness shakes his head. “You don’t understand. The first few days, when it seemed that Hamilton was going to die, people wanted you _hanged._ Luckily, that isn’t the case anymore, but they still want you to stand trial. Hamilton too. Because you guys weren’t being model citizens, or whatever, by stomping out into a field and playing a game of _will-he-or-will-he-not shoot me!”_

Aaron scoffs. “I never claimed that Alexander and I are model citizens.”

“I concur.”

Aaron doesn’t take it personally — instead, he laughs, for the first time all week. He doesn’t stop.

Van Ness stares. “Um. You okay?” 

“Peachy keen.”

It doesn’t seem to convince Van Ness. Let that be his own problem, Aaron decides, and he grabs his waistcoat to put it on. 

“What are you waiting for?” Aaron asks. “Didn’t you come here to rescue me? Be my knight in shining armor?”

He smiles when Van Ness curses in a fit of pique, distracted from his concern about Aaron. “I come all the way back here in the goddamn middle of summer to save your sorry ass and this is the thanks I get? You had a whole week to prepare better snipes, you could have at least done that, I didn’t—” and so on, Aaron stops listening.

Aaron suspects that Van Ness makes such a fuss because he knows it’ll amuse Aaron. That’s fine with Aaron.

Before they leave, Aaron is sure to pocket the letter from Hamilton.

_Later._

 

* * *

 

When Theo embraces him, Aaron believes that everything will be okay.

And he remembers, that _yes_ , this is why he did it. For his only child, so there wouldn’t be the chance that she would have to grow up alone.

Aaron tells her this — he’s always been able to tell her anything, even the things that others conventionally believe that young women shouldn’t be privy to. The world is easier to live in when the entirety of it is available, both the good and the bad. Without knowledge of the bad, it’s more difficult to appreciate the good.

Theo pulls away from him but holds onto his arms. Theo may have his eyes, but she can mimic her mother’s sharp gaze perfectly.

“Or,” Theo says, “You could have not dueled at all.” She makes no effort to disguise it as anything other than _scolding._

Aaron accepts it.

“You should have married that Alston guy,” Aaron says, frowning. “Then you could distance yourself from your shameful father.” 

Theo scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Papa, don’t be ridiculous.” She smiles, pats him on his arm, straightens his coat. “Then who would be here to help you?”

“I can help myself.”

“Oh, right,” Theo says, her anger that she’s been holding in now evident. “Except that Mister Hamilton could have _killed_ you—”

“He didn’t.”

“—or you could have killed him—”

“I didn’t,” Aaron says, measured, because that is a truth that he keeps repeating. “But if either of us had been the reason for the other’s death, it would have been fair. I had an issue with him that we could not resolve with simple discussion, so I challenged him as a gentleman, and he responded as such.”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Theo scoffs. “Whatever you want to tell yourself.”

Aaron matches her scowl, crosses his arms. “But Hamilton forgave me,” he says. It sounds like a feeble excuse, even to him.

His daughter knows him, she knows that he’s affected — and perhaps he didn’t realize the full extent of it until he talked it through with her. He may be able to put up a front to Van Ness and to the world and to himself, but Theo, he has to answer to her. He has to tell her the truth.

“He sent me a letter,” Aaron softly says. Theo gives him a look like _and what of it?_  and he shakes his head. “I haven’t yet opened it.” He slides his hand into his pocket and runs the pad of his thumb along the edge of the envelope, wondering of it contents — absolution, or condemnation. Aaron isn’t sure if he can handle either. If Hamilton damns him, then well, that’s the end of it, and while it stings the alternative is almost worse. If Hamilton truly forgives him, _what then?_

Gentle, Theo says, “You will not know peace until you know.”

Aaron knows she’s right. It’s now or never — he has to know his fate.

He unfolds the letter carefully, like it’s something precious. He takes a deep breath before reading the message, reminding himself that the worst that could happen has already happened.

When he first reads it, he is struck by two things: that the letter is not in Hamilton’s own hand, and that it is perhaps the shortest message Hamilton has ever given to him. 

 

 

 

> _A.B.—_
> 
> _I forgive all that happened._
> 
> _I know._
> 
> _—A.H._

 

The first line makes his chest lighter, however the second line sets him back at unease. It doesn’t reveal anything more with repeated readings. Aaron turns the page over to see if there’s something possibly written on the back, a paragraph beginning _One more thing—_ but…nothing.

Aaron hands the letter to Theo, because frankly he wants to see if someone else can garner meaning from it. She reads it once, and then like him, she flips it over as if she’s expecting more. Shrugging, she gives it back to Aaron, who reluctantly takes it.

Theo sits next to him, places her hand over his. “That’s great!” she says. “He has no resentment towards you.”

Aaron scoffs. “It says he forgives me. Forgiveness is one thing, resentment is another.” Let it be known that Alexander Hamilton knows how to hold a grudge.

Theo rolls her eyes, but doesn’t try to argue. Instead, she asks, “What does that mean, though? _I know?_ ”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Aaron admits. It could mean so many things. I know that you didn't mean it. I know that you did mean it. I know that I damaged your pride by choosing Jefferson over you, and I know that you know that I know that's why I did it. I know that you miss how it used to be.

Or it could mean nothing at all.

Silence lingers between them as Aaron is lost in his thoughts. Theo sits quietly next to him; the quiet is never uncomfortable with the Burrs. They appreciate the respite that only solitude can bring. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Theo suddenly turns to him.

“Then that only leaves one solution.” She says it seriously, her eyes bright, a smile playing on her lips.

Aaron groans. He doesn’t like the sound of it already. “What, my dear?”

“You need to go see him,” Theo says. “It’s the only way—” 

“Absolutely not.” Aaron stands, and goes to walk out of the study to signify that the conversation is over. Visit Hamilton? As if.

Theo follows. She’s quick and catches his arm before he reaches the door.

“Papa! Don’t be ridiculous.” She tugs on his arm until he stops resisting and turns to look at her. When she’s won that battle, she continues, “You have to clear the air between the two of you. Hamilton may have granted his forgiveness, but there will forever be a tension until you address it. This isn’t something that a brief letter will solve. It’ll eat you up from the inside, and I can’t see that happen to you.”

“Theo…” 

“And can you ask him yourself what he meant by _I know._ Who knows, it could his hook, an invitation for you to go see him.”

Aaron frowns. “Hamilton isn’t intentionally that thinly veiled.”

Despite Aaron’s misgivings, Theo presses on, determined, “And it’ll give you a chance to say your peace.” She pauses, lowers her voice before apprehensively saying, “You can apologize.” 

Aaron starts to speak, but Theo cuts him off, saying, “You need to. From what I know of your disagreement, you both are in the wrong. Nothing can be settled until you acknowledge that.” 

In Aaron’s hand, he holds Hamilton’s forgiveness, and a few days ago that would have been enough — Hamilton staying alive was the real wish, anything else was bonus — but now he wants _more._ Hamilton’s letter is concise, just a few words strung together that add up to a phrase that is supposed to mean something, but it leaves Aaron feeling empty, even more at a loss than he felt before. He shot Hamilton, who was his friend at one point and now that Aaron thinks of it he doesn’t know when they stopped being friends, but he shot Hamilton and he doesn’t know understand how he can be okay with that. 

He wants…he doesn’t know what he wants. He can hear Hamilton laughing at him.

There is one question he has to ask himself: is it enough? Is Hamilton’s forgiveness enough — something Aaron would not have needed if Hamilton had heeded, if he had not _provoked_ him — or does he require Hamilton’s apology as well? 

“Go speak to him,” Theo repeats. “You have to.” 

Aaron tilts his head at her. “I thought you were on my side.”

“I _am_ ,” Theo says, and takes Aaron’s hands in hers. “And that’s why I’m telling you to do this. And I hate to say it Papa, but you haven’t made good choices so far about this situation.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Aaron grumbles. 

Theo laughs. “No you don’t.”

And she’s right, again. She usually is.

“Now, why you don’t you get cleaned up, have a good night’s rest, and then go see the Hamiltons in the morning?” Theo takes Aaron’s arm, guides him to his room. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” 

He hopes that she’s right in this, too.

 

* * *

 

Aaron has to visit Hamilton, has to. He won’t have peace until he sees him alive.

At first, he would not think of Hamilton as dead until he had proof otherwise, but now he’s beginning to believe the opposite — that Hamilton is only an idea until he confronts him.

Aaron sets off in the morning after breakfast. He chooses to walk, using the time to think of what to say ( _Hey, I’m sorry I—_ no. _You look well, Alexander—_ not that either. _Well, that happened—_ no good.), but before he knows it, he’s at Hamilton’s and he still doesn’t know how to start this conversation (and he can’t rely on Hamilton to start it, because Aaron wants to start _and_ finish it). He would turn back, but he knows that Theo would be disappointed in him, and honestly, he would be disappointed in himself too. He’s come this far.

“Here goes nothing,” Aaron says to himself, and he proceeds up the drive.

The Grange is a product of Hamilton funneling his money and time into the construction of his family home. Aaron suspects that the man’s obsession with it was to create something permanent for his family, something to tie them together in a place with a strong foundation. Aaron can respect that. Regardless if it was successful at that, it’s impressive and beautiful — large and yellow, porches lining the sides, a terrace on the upper floor, and a wide set of stairs leading up to the front door.

He stands in the yard in front of the house, and looks up at the many windows, wondering which one Hamilton is on the other side of. He half expects Hamilton to be standing at the window looking out. If he were, Aaron could just shout up at him and have their discussion that way, with him on the ground and Hamilton leaning out of his window like some backwards version of _Romeo and Juliet_ , and not have to worry about the awkwardness of a close proximity meeting. But Hamilton isn’t in sight — all the curtains are tightly drawn, shutting everything out.

Resigned that the meeting is necessary, Aaron takes a deep breath and takes another step towards the house. However, he’s stilled when someone flings the door open and starts a quick descent down the stairs. When Aaron squints, he recognizes the figure as Angelica Church, Hamilton’s sister-in-law.

Shit.

Aaron isn’t really sure what to do as she rushes towards him. She must have seen him approaching, he imagines, and is here to stop him. He didn’t really think about any obstacles on the way to see Hamilton — his own hesitation had been enough of an impediment.

His chest prickles with a fight or flight response, and everything tells him to make a break for it; even though he isn’t as fit as he once was, Angelica is in heels and a dress and wouldn’t be able to out run him. But he thinks that running would make him look guilty, so he stands his ground as she comes up on him.

“Good morning,” Aaron says stupidly as soon as Angelica is in earshot. “I thought that I’d pay a visit, I hope it’s not a bad time—” 

Angelica stops short only a few inches away from Aaron, rocking forward on her toes with the force of wanting to keep going forward. She eyes him up and down, then quirks her brow. “A _bad_ time?” She asks. “Every time is a bad time, when it concerns you.”

“I deserve that,” Aaron says, flat. He tries again, “Look, I want to speak to Hamilton. A few minutes should suffice.”

She scoffs, asks, “Why do you think you’re entitled to anything? Haven’t you—”

Both of them turn when they hear the door slamming open again, and Aaron groans when he sees the next person coming towards them in an almost sprint. There’s Mrs. Hamilton herself, holding up her skirts as she crosses the distance to them.

Damn being steadfast. At least he can say he tried.

“I should go,” Aaron says, but Angelica grabs his arm and says, “Oh no you don’t.”

So Aaron has to remain there as Eliza joins her sister, together as Hamilton’s own defense squad. He manages to pull his arm away from Angelica, cursing under his breath at her tight grip, and then takes a step back and holds his hands out as a show of good nature. It feels like his heart is in his throat as Eliza stares him down; she’s breathless and pink-faced and her eyes are tearing up and _fuck_ Aaron feels awful.

“I’m so sorry,” Aaron says, the words spilling out unbidden, “I didn’t mean for it to—I don’t know, I’m sorry, if I—” 

Eliza makes a move towards Aaron, and Aaron flinches — for a moment he thought that she might slap him. Aaron wishes she would, it would make this easier. Instead, she burns with a blazing intensity. He had thought that Angelica would be the fury, but it’s Eliza — a calculated, direct, honed ferocity that cuts exactly where it hurts most.

“Leave,” Eliza says softly, then louder, “Go, and never return.”

Aaron sputters. “But…I have to see him!” It would be a good time to provide other reasoning, however, all thoughts fail other than the single-minded determination to get to Hamilton.

“I’m not going to _hurt_ him if that’s what concerns you,” Aaron says. “We’re past that, I swear it.”

Angelica hooks her arm in Eliza’s. “So, what? So that you can alleviate your own conscience?” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “Or do you want to see the damage you’ve wrought upon this family?”

“No! It’s not like that!” Aaron’s world is spinning, it would have been seven children without a father. He looks up to the house and for a moment he thinks he sees Hamilton standing on the porch, but then he blinks and realizes that it’s not — he’s about thirty years too young, and Aaron concludes that it must be Hamilton’s son, there to keep watch. 

Someone jabs a finger in his chest, and he looks back to the women before him. He isn't sure which one did it; both are justified.

“Well?” Eliza asks, and Angelica follows it with, “Why are you still here?”

Aaron lets out a huff of irritation. “I won’t defend myself, fine,” he says, harsher than he intended, “but I need to know, is Alexander really okay?”

“Burr…” 

“Please. Tell me about Alexander.” He’s ashamed at how pathetic he sounds.

The Schuylers scowl at him, like Aaron shouldn’t speak Hamilton’s name, that he shouldn’t have ever had the chance to know him on such friendly terms. They turn to each other, an unspoken conversation shared in a glance, then return their scrutiny back to Aaron.

“Alexander is recovering,” Eliza says, her mouth tugging up into a smile. “Better than expected, actually.”

“ _Oh_ , thank God,” and Aaron almost falls to his knees in gratitude, the confirmation from a reliable source. In the sweep of joy, he takes one of Eliza’s hands in both of his, says, “I knew he would pull though.”

A beat of silence, and Aaron lets Eliza’s hand fall, realizing what he’s done. Aaron shifts on his feet, clears his throat. Eliza clutches her hand, brings it to her chest. Angelica’s glare hardens.

“Yeah,” Angelica says, steely. “It’ll take more than the likes of _you_ to take him down.”

“I know,” Aaron agrees. 

He looks back up at the closed windows, knowing that Hamilton is up there, somewhere. He exists. 

After all, you cannot kill an idea with a bullet.

His vision swims — it’s happening again, he’s so close, all he wants to do is speak to Hamilton, and yet he’s being dragged away. A lawn and two sisters separate them now, before that a sandy shore and ten measured paces, and before that misunderstandings and perceived grievances kept them apart. 

There will always be something separating them.

“This was a mistake,” Aaron says, and he backs away. Eliza and Angelica stare at him in question, but he can’t meet their eyes — he supposes he is a coward, because he retreats. 

Aaron rushes through the streets, looking over his shoulder; he suspects everyone as an enemy. His panic grows, more and more, and he doesn’t stop until he’s safely back at home. 

He locks the door behind him, leans against it and takes the first full breath since he left the Grange.

“Papa? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Aaron forces out, wrecked. He pushes away from the door and goes to undo his coat, attempting to appear at ease — he doesn’t wish to worry Theo. 

Theo comes into the foyer, begins, “How did it go?” but Aaron is too transparent for her, and she says, “Oh no,” sad and crestfallen.

“It’s fine,” Aaron replies. He won’t look at her, he focuses on the clasp on his coat but his hands are trembling too much and he lets out a whine of frustration and his vision is starting to blur and even though everything is fine, it’s all wrong. 

“Let me,” Theo says, and she takes over the task of unfastening Aaron’s coat. It comes unfastened easily, and she helps him out of his coat, hangs it up, doesn’t say anything how her father is slowly falling apart in front of her.

“I couldn’t—,” Aaron begins, but his words get caught and turn into a choked-off sob. “I don’t know what I’m going to _do._ ”

And that’s all it takes — Theo wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a tight hug, mumbles, “Oh, Papa,” into his chest. She rubs his back comfortingly and promises that it will be okay, like how he used to do with her when their world fell apart after her mother died.  

Aaron isn’t so optimistic. Sure, Aaron did not kill Hamilton, and Hamilton did not kill him. Aaron had been so _sure_ of his actions leading up to it, but now he sees that he was wrong, he was _wrong_ , and now he doubts all. 

By Hamilton granting Aaron forgiveness, Hamilton has killed him, even so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is also an au where Theo didn't get married
> 
> writing about Burr??? did you mean _using too many Javert references???_
> 
> feedback is more effective than caffeine or sleep for me


	4. Alexander II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is bored. Visitors make him less bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos, comments, messages on tumblr! I cherish every one, and it makes my day. Y'all are the best.
> 
> Something I've been meaning to say but I keep forgetting: my fancast for Van Ness is Seth Stewart.
> 
> This is...a long chapter. Oops.

Alexander is dying — of boredom.

“Must you be so insufferable?” Angelica asks when he tells her this. “You should be thankful that you’re alive, and yet you’re complaining that you don’t have interesting enough activities to occupy your _free time_.”

Having been properly scolded, Alexander slumps back into the pillows and says, “Fair enough.”

Angelica is right, Alexander knows this. He’s lucky to be alive — again.

He has _almost_ died so many times that when he actually dies, it’s going to be anticlimactic. Almost dying but surviving is getting old.

But Alexander is alive, left only with the lingering pain of a bullet wound and strict orders for bed rest until further notice. The two of these are counterproductive to each other — he’s well enough now that he’s awake for most of the day and there’s nothing to distract from the discomfort he suffers, and he’s grown tired of staring at the same four walls day in and day out.

At times, he almost wishes to be unconscious from pain and near death again, because then at least it would pass the time — and he would be able to fade back into that Other Side.

Alexander hasn’t spoken of it to anyone, but he cannot stop thinking about it — the serenity it cast over his heart and mind, the people there he had to leave behind…

He tries to tell himself that it was an imagined fantasy created by his dying mind, a comfort to lull him as he fell into nothingness, but deep down he knows it wasn’t. His chest aches with the loss of it, and the brush with death has made his life-long familiarity with it even stronger. It had been the closest yet — when Alexander closes his eyes, he can still feel the tug of it, inviting. The memory of it is strong, the compulsion to fall into it overpowering — and every night he tells Eliza and the children that he loves them, just in case he is to die in his sleep and go back to that place.

However, it — Death, capital _D_ — never overtakes him, and he gets what he’s always wanted: more time.

So, Alexander takes what he’s given.

It would be easier to be grateful if he actually had something to _do_ — everyone worries over him to not overdo it or get too stressed out. He’s sentenced to a prescription of bed rest and once he’s well enough, simple conversation. People sitting around his bedside and having idle discussion while deliberately ignoring the severity of situation gets dull quickly. Everyone acts like nothing happened, as if it’s just a normal sickness that he’s recovering from and not the results of an almost deadly encounter. Frankly, it infuriates Alexander — it happened, he had been challenged and he accepted it knowing full well that he may _die_ , he knew that and he had been okay with it, and that’s _not_ okay.

He wants to write to clear his mind, to jot down the events of Weehawken because he never ever wants to forget that, but more so to write the descriptions of the Other Side. He fears that he’ll forget them (he clings to the memories, ones like how he never realized how much Philip resembled his mother until they were standing side by side) and if he puts it into words, it would exist. But he can’t even do that. 

“You know how you are,” Eliza tells him, even when he begs really nicely. “Once you start you won’t stop, and you aren’t in a condition to get agitated.”

No mention of how keeping it from him makes him _more_ agitated.

There’s a ray of hope when Alexander convinces one of the younger children to bring him his lap-desk and writing utensils. Alexander knows that it’s an underhanded move to take advantage when James sits on the edge of his bed and asks, “How can I make you better, Pops?” but Alexander rationalizes it with himself because it technically _would_ make him feel better, and the child had asked, after all.

Alexander gets only a page written before he gets caught. Angelica takes it away while Eliza scowls at him and says, “You know better,” which, yeah, he does, but the hour of respite and the muting of his busy mind were worth it.

A couple days after the lap-desk incident, determined to prove that his imposed immobility is not necessary and that he’s truly okay, he tries getting up out of bed. It’s been almost two weeks — when he was injured in the war he was only down for a day or two, if that — so he should be fine, now. He’s able to sit up without a problem and there’s only a twinge of pain when he swings his legs to the side of the bed. He can totally do this, he’ll show them.

At least, that’s what he thinks until he falls down one step away from the bed, collapsing onto the floor with an _oomph_.

For a moment he considers shouting for someone to help him because try as he might, he can’t get up off the floor, but he doesn’t want anyone to make a bigger deal than it warrants. Nothing feels broken and he doesn’t think that he re-opened his wound, and other than his usual aches the only thing that hurts is his pride. So he decides to lie on the floor until someone comes to check on him. He isn’t in a rush for someone to see him in this undignified state — sprawled out on the floor, his nightshirt riding up high on his thighs, and he can’t even be bothered to try and make himself more decent.

At least the floor is a change of scenery.

He isn’t sure how long he’s on the floor, but he’s pretty sure he dozes off at one point because there’s a puddle of drool on the floor when he hears someone coming into the room.

“Alexander, what do — oh my God!”

And of course she overreacts — Eliza rushing to him and kneeling at his side and calling for Angelica, tears in her eyes as she caresses Alexander’s face and says, “What did you do, my love?”

“Taking a nap,” Alexander mumbles. “Why don’t you join me here on the floor? It’s quite comfortable. Although I think I have a splinter in my ass.”

Humor is all he has to distract from his loss of dignity. 

Eliza doesn’t take it well, and neither does Angelica. They reprimand him, about how he could have ripped out his stitches or worse, but they won’t name what _worse_ is.

“I’m not as fragile as you think,” Alexander mutters, indignant, as he’s put back into bed, even though he feels very small when Eliza, Angelica, and Al pick him up. “I’m fine.”

Eliza sighs. “I’ll do anything — within reason,” she adds when she sees Alexander’s face light up, “if you promise to sit still.”

It isn’t so much the promise of something that convinces him, but it’s seeing how his noncompliance causes Eliza such distress that leads him to make an effort to be better and try.

 

* * *

 

People parade in and out, offering their condolences and company. It’s a revolving rotation of friends and foes alike that call on him, because everyone wants to be _nice_ to you when you almost die.

It’s kind of sickening.

Even Jefferson grants them with his presence, all the way from the Capitol. It’s a surprise — the president, _Jefferson_ visiting their house. 

“Do I have to see him?” Alexander whines. “Tell him it’s too late. Tell him I died when I heard that he was in my parlor.”

“Just talk to the man,” Angelica says, stern. Alexander will never understand how she can have even a tentative _friendship_ with the man. He had asked her once, and her excuse was that Jefferson is “intriguing company” and Alexander didn’t want to hear any more of it, or what they did in France many years ago.

In the end, he agrees to see Jefferson (“I’m undergoing this hardship for you, dear sister. Don’t say I never do you any favors.”). If anything, irritating Jefferson will be a good way to lift his spirits. 

Alexander figures that Jefferson comes just to see for himself, to make sure the stories aren’t exaggerating his condition. It wouldn’t be the first time for Jefferson to do that; Alexander recalls when Jefferson once belittled him when he was suffering from yellow fever. Ironic, coming from the man who complains when the sun is too bright and cancels meetings because of headaches.

He sits up in bed and makes himself look presentable — or tries to, anyway. Just now he realizes that he hasn’t shaved in days, and his attempt to smooth his bed-tangled hair is a futile task so he gives up the appearance of being well kept and aims for nonchalance instead.

A few seconds later, he hears footsteps coming down the hall as Angelica says, “Don’t antagonize him, Thomas, please.”

“I’m sure Hamilton is fine,” Jefferson responds as he strides into the room after Angelica, but he stops short in the doorway when he sees Alexander laid up in bed. “Uh.”

Jefferson actually seems _concerned_ Alexander realizes. He’s looking at Alexander with wide eyes like he’s trying to search him out, and that’s coupled with a mild expression of panic, like _oh shit!_ as he realizes that Alexander is actually hurt pretty badly but he doesn’t know what to do with that information, so he’s just standing there looking sorry at Alexander.

Alexander doesn’t want Jefferson to pity him — or anyone else, for that matter.

He lets Jefferson squirm with awkwardness a little bit more before setting the guide, saying, “Hey, asshole.”

Angelica _tsks_. Alexander shrugs, says, “Can’t help it.”

There’s a beat where Jefferson closes his eyes and sighs, and he does his best to mask it as annoyance, but his relief is obvious, his shoulders relaxing and his swagger returning. It passes quickly, though — he turns to Angelica and says, “Like I said. He’s fine. He’ll be back causing havoc everywhere he goes in no time.”

Alexander grins. Somehow, Jefferson being his usual self makes Alexander feel like he’s probably going to be okay.

“You can leave us, Angelica,” Alexander says, looking over to where she’s standing by the wall, carefully observing, before returning his gaze to Jefferson. “I’m incapacitated, so I can’t cause him harm. Not much, anyway.”

Jefferson matches his glare before turning his attention to Angelica.

“Darlin’, although I much prefer your company to Hamilton’s,” Jefferson says with his most charming smile, taking Angelica’s hand in his and kissing it while keeping his eyes on her. He ignores Alexander’s exaggerated gagging sounds and continues, “but Hamilton and I have some things to discuss.” He presses another kiss to her hand. “I promise you that we’ll be civil.”

Angelica rolls her eyes and tugs her hand away from Jefferson, freeing herself from him. She puts her hands on her hips and looks between the two of them, almost exasperated, like they’re children and she’s worried to leave them without supervision. Alexander wonders whose well being she’s more concerned for — his, or Jefferson’s. 

Probably both.

She’s apprehensive about it, but Angelica leaves them alone, even though her parting words are, “I expect for you to behave like gentlemen, or else.”

“I’m always a gentleman,” Alexander mutters when she shuts the door behind her, comment gone unheard.

Jefferson lets out a disbelieving scoff as he takes the seat next to Alexander’s bedside. Jefferson looks supreme as always — he’s impeccably dressed, cream-colored ruffles made of fine lace spilling out of a navy-blue coat, blue breeches to match, and a flashy smile to top it off. Disgusting.

Alexander is suddenly very aware of his scruffy appearance. Jefferson’s smile grows as Alexander flushes in self-conscious embarrassment — he’s obviously enjoying this. It’s just like Jefferson to waltz into _his_ house, invade _his_ safe space, make _him_ feel weird. 

Jefferson crosses his legs and leans in towards Alexander. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Alexander replies, because honestly, he does. He doesn’t see the point in lying to Jefferson because the man knows it already, and pretending otherwise seems to be cowardly. Own up to it. Admit his fault. He’s not well. He’s weak from lying in bed, he can’t move without a jabbing pain in his side, he can’t do much of anything by himself, and it’s hard to breathe sometimes and he has coughing spells. He’s tired, and he’s tired of acting like he’s fine when all he wants to do is bitch about it. Alexander thinks he might have lost his mind because he thinks Jefferson is the most logical person for this — Alexander isn’t concerned about hurting Jefferson’s feelings and he knows that Jefferson won’t be worried sick about him like others would. 

There’s a tense moment, but then Jefferson full-body laughs, _ha ha ha_ , and sits back in the chair and taps his cane on the floor. Alexander stares at him blankly until Jefferson quiets and says, “But you’ve looked worse.” 

“Jerk.”

“What else did you expect?” Jefferson asks. “Would you prefer me to coddle you? Brush your gross hair? Spoon feed you?” 

Alexander laughs, but then winces at the sharp pain in his side. Jefferson is unfazed when he clutches it and groans. “Fuck no,” Alexander says. “I’d rather you shoot me.”

“Wouldn’t that be something? Both the Vice President _and_ the President shooting you.” Jefferson says it smooth, a volley to Alexander, waiting to see how he responds. 

 _Finally_ , someone speaking of what happened. Alexander sits back into the pillows and lets out a sigh of relief with the overwhelming feeling of validation. Jefferson is the first person who hasn’t skirted around the issue — denial hasn’t made the fact that someone who Alexander once considered his friend shot him.

“Well?” Jefferson asks.

“Conspiracy.” Alexander waves his hand dismissively. “But at least from you, I’d expect it.”

Jefferson _harrumphs_.   “I don’t engage in something as idiotic as dueling,” he says like the very idea of it is beneath him — never mind the fact that he’s done much more despicable things for his personal gain. He frowns, picks lint off his sleeve. Not looking at Alexander, he continues, “Which speaking of dueling, you’re facing the legal charges for it. New York can prosecute you for it, you know.”

Alexander shrugs. There had been that risk, even if they did carry it out in New Jersey where the law is not as stringent. “Are you here to collect me and take me to court?” 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Jefferson says, relaxed, clear that he’s making a point that Alexander knows that he’s doing him a favor, that he has the _power_ to make criminal charges disappear. 

“Thanks,” Alexander replies, begrudgingly. Being indebted to Thomas Jefferson is a dangerous thing. However, Alexander quickly comes up with a compromise to make the scales equal and not be obligated to him. “Now we’re even for my endorsement in the election. Although that indirectly got me in my current condition.”

Jefferson chuckles. “I suppose. And don’t worry about Burr, either. I’ll handle him.”

“I’m _not_ worried about him.” Burr has already done the worst thing that he can do. Alexander may have forgiven Burr for the outcome of their duel — fair is fair in a defense of honor — but what led up to it, he cannot excuse. He can’t understand how Burr could’ve hated him that much.

“Yeah, well.” Jefferson snorts, amused at his own joke. “He’s an awful Vice President. He’s a nuisance, complains all the time. _Why wasn’t I invited to the meeting? Why won’t you let me do anything?_ ” Jefferson says, pitching up his voice to impersonate Burr, although it doesn’t sound like Burr’s smooth tenor at all. “I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”

Under the new amendment, Jefferson is campaigning with one of his loyal Democratic-Republicans for the 1804 election, together — a change from when the runner-up in the election became Vice President. Alexander has to admit that it makes sense; the disaster of the election of 1800 proved that the previous method wasn’t conducive, and now the executive branch will be united instead of trying to outdo the other. Although, Alexander is sure that Jefferson’s intentions of it was mostly a massive _fuck you_ to Burr.

“I’m sure Burr will be more glad to be free of you,” Alexander replies. “Having to be your right hand man? No wonder he became homicidal.”

“Burr is a useless clod,” Jefferson says, and gestures to Alexander. “He can’t even shoot you properly.”

Alexander brings his hand to lay on his abdomen, touching where bandages are wrapped around his middle underneath his shirt.

“I’m thankful for his failures,” Alexander softly says. _Or his properly aimed successes,_ he thinks to himself.

“At least someone is,” Jefferson mutters, and then sighs, loud and drawn out. “Hamilton, listen…” His voice trails off as he runs a hand through his curly hair, sighing as he tries to articulate his words but he stammers, “I…I was going to say…” 

“What?” Alexander asks, intrigued — he knows that whatever it is, it’s got to be good to make Jefferson revert back to a muttering, awkward weirdo. “Please Jefferson, tell me. C’mon, tell me tell me _please_ ,” and this what Alexander had needed, he feels better than he has in days, annoying Jefferson is the cure for all his pains.

Jefferson puts a hand to his forehead and sighs again, like Alexander is the greatest irritation in the world, which _goal achieved._ That is good enough, but then it gets even better, because Jefferson says — vexed, like Alexander dragged the confession out of him — Jefferson says, “I’m glad you aren’t dead.” 

“Oh, _Thomas_ , I never knew you cared so much,” Alexander says, mock coquettish. “Are you going to kiss my hand too?”

Thomas bristles, pulls at his lapels, regains his composure. “Don’t think too much of it. I’d just miss having you around because in comparison, you make me feel good about myself. But I’d get over it in, like, two days.” 

“Aww, shucks. Don’t go get sentimental on me—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

* * *

 

The thing is, everyone comes to visit Alexander — everyone except Burr.

Alexander is disappointed. He thought that Burr would come running at the opportunity to grovel at his bedside. Alexander had been patiently waiting for Burr to make the next move — Alexander had made his with that letter. Alexander waits for a response — either with amicability or scorn, anything, at least it would be something. He waits and waits, but he was never the one good at waiting. 

He starts to think of all the possible reasons of what’s keeping Burr away. Maybe he didn’t get the letter, but no, Van Ness assured him that he would and even though he’s a shifty fellow, he’s reliable. Maybe Burr is too embarrassed to show his face. Maybe Burr doesn’t want to mend anything. Maybe he doesn’t even care. Maybe Alexander was wrong about him for all these years.

It can’t be the end of it. He refuses to believe, and every day that Burr doesn’t show up, Alexander’s anger grows.

“It’s no wonder that Burr won’t show his face,” Alexander says, words bitter in his mouth, two and a half weeks _after_ (it needs no explanation of what that means, it will always be an unchangeable point for them). “I always knew he was a coward.”

Eliza looks uneasy, shifts, shares a glance with Angelica next to her. It’s a micro-movement, hardly noticeable, but for Alexander it’s telling — they’re hiding something from him.

“What happened?” Alexander demands. “And don’t even try to say _nothing,_ because I know that look, it’s your secret-sister communication thing that you do when you’re talking about me.”

“Umm.” Eliza falters for a moment, but then smiles and pats his leg. “You’re imagining things, dear.”

And just like that, Angelica follows her lead. “Not everything is about you, Alexander.”

“But it _is_ ,” Alexander protests, but then Eliza and Angelica glower at him, and he still has to depend on them for things like food and fetching books to read and he doesn’t want them pissed off at him so he adds, “It’s about me this time, anyway.”

“Alexander, _please_.” 

“No,” Alexander responds, his voice rising, “as soon as I mentioned Burr, you started acting all weird, which makes sense because he you know, shot me, but still. Can’t we talk about how Burr hasn’t came to see me?”

“I’m glad he hasn’t,” Eliza says at the same time Angelica snaps, “Good riddance,” but they’re interrupted by a smaller, innocent voice piping up from the floor.

“But he did, Pops.”

Alexander looks down to the source of the noise — his child William. He steals a glance to Eliza and Angelica and _ha_ their shared alarmed expression definitely means that they’re hiding something.

“What do you mean, William?” Alexander asks.

William, who doesn’t realize that the three adults in room are staring at him and hanging on to his every word, continues playing with his toys, oblivious. He knocks a block tower over, and then continues, “About mister Burr? Al said—”

“Alexander Jr. was just talking trash about Burr, that’s all,” Angelica says. Eliza nods in agreement. Alexander isn’t convinced. 

William furrows his brows. “But didn’t he come here last week? Al said that you and Mama yelled at him in the front yard.” 

“You did _what?_ ” Alexander sits up further in the bed, scoots to make a place next to him. “Come here, my favorite child, and tell me everything you know.”

William goes to him, but then Eliza cuts him off with, “William, don’t.”

William looks nervously between Alexander and Eliza, clearly trapped between which parent to appease. His solution is bolting from the room. Smart kid.

When he’s gone, Alexander turns to Eliza and Angelica and says, “Explain.”

“It’s not what you think,” Eliza begins, feebly. “You still weren’t feeling the best, and Burr came by unannounced—”

“And who does that?” Angelica interjects.

“Yeah, right?” Eliza says, gesturing out to her. “Burr came and was demanding to see you, rambling about how he  _had_ to and how he’s _sorry_ and when we confronted him he turned into a nervous wreck. Almost tripped over himself in his rush to escape.” She runs her hands over her lap, smoothing the wrinkle her dress. “We did what we had to do.” 

Alexander shakes his head in disbelief.

“I’ve been distressed over the fact that Burr has been seemingly ignoring me,” Alexander says, frustrated, “but he wasn’t! You just turned him away!” He’s glad for the fact that he had been wrong, but now it’s another missed opportunity — there had been a chance. “Resolution is allowed between gentlemen’s disagreements.”

Eliza scoffs and rolls her eyes, her indication that she’s _done_ with the conversation, so Angelica speaks for her.

“We thought that you’d get over it,” is Angelica’s excuse. “Please don’t be upset. We did what we thought was best.”

“Oh my God.” Alexander rubs at his temples. How could they not get it? How important it is. But when he thinks of it, he doesn’t know why it’s so important. Deep down, he knows that they’re right. He should just forget Burr, forget the whole damn thing.

But he can’t.

He takes a deep breath, calms, and reaches out for Eliza’s hand. An offering of an apology.

She takes it. The rest is easy, appealing to her kind, forgiving nature. 

“My sweet, beautiful, lovely wife,” he begins, cajoling.

Too smart for him, she asks, flat, “What now?”

Regardless, Alexander continues, “You said you’d do _anything_ for me, and—” 

“No,” Eliza and Angelica respond together, and Alexander collapses back on to the bed with a huff.

So it’s going to take more persuasion. Finally, something to do.

 

* * *

 

It takes a lot of sweet talk to both of the ladies and a lot of convincing that he’s all right, but in the end Alexander gets what he wants.

A letter is sent to Burr in the morning asking for his presence, and later the same day it's returned in the affirmative that he’ll stop by the next day no later than ten in the morning.

Only then does Alexander realize he has no idea what he’s going to say to Burr. The conversation in his head goes something like this: Burr will say, _You aren’t dead!_ and Alexander will say, _Bitch, you thought!_ and then…who knows. 

He makes an effort to be more presentable than he did for Jefferson; with Eliza’s help he shaves, brushes his hair, wears a housecoat. He isn’t really sure why he cares — a part of him wants to Burr to see the condition that he’s in _because_ of him, but he also wants Burr to see that he’s resilient. Little ol’ bullet didn’t hurt him none. He’s just taking a midday lounge in bed.

He has to admit he’s nervous about their meeting, because now Burr is unpredictable and that — that unsettles him.

As it gets close to when Burr is scheduled to arrive, Alexander thinks that maybe Burr won’t show up. He doesn’t have enough time to decide if that’s what he wants or not because Burr shows right on time. He’s always punctual.

If he listens carefully, Alexander can hear Eliza greeting Burr at the door, a muffled cordial conversation that he knows is probably a strain for both of them. As they get closer, Alexander can hear more of it and parse out individual phrases, Eliza saying, _“You must understand why my sister and I did that,”_ and Burr replying, _“Of course, I don’t blame you at all,”_ and Alexander’s heart speeds up at the sound of his voice, but it’s not anxiety it’s anticipation, and Alexander doesn’t have to wait anymore, because Burr is there, only several feet ahead of him—

—and it feels like an eternity since he’s seen Burr on the shores of Weehawken, but it’s something that’s ever present on his mind. It’s the point in their story that divides it into a _before_ and _after._ The decisive moment where everything changed — a revolution that occurred between them.

If it’s a successful one — well, that’s what comes next.

Burr keeps his distance, standing awkwardly across the room and hugging the wall. He looks _scared_ , Alexander realizes, he knows that because he recognizes Burr’s expression — it’s the same one Burr wore as he stared down the barrel of a smoking pistol that was aimed at Alexander.

But then, then Burr smiles ( _smile more_ ), and that Alexander is familiar with too — it’s reminiscent of when they first met. He’s the same nervous guy with a façade of self-confidence, eager to please, and yet again it’s Alexander who he wants to impress.

Alexander catches his gaze; it shifts; Burr’s shifts with it.

“Leave us be, Eliza,” Alexander says, not looking away from Burr.

“But—” Eliza stammers, and looks to Burr like _no offense_ but then gestures to him. As if she could protect him if Burr tried to hurt him. But then again, his Betsey is fierce, when she wants to be. No — when necessary.

“I’m sure the Vice President won’t try and finish the job he started,” Alexander says, reassuring. He quirks his brow at Burr. “Correct?”

Burr clenches his jaw. “Correct.”

Unconvinced, Eliza gets close enough to Alexander to lean down and whisper in his ear, “Are you sure about this?”

Over Eliza’s shoulder, Alexander sees Burr blink and look away from them, fidgety and uncomfortable with the knowledge that he’s being talked about, a private conference between husband and wife.

Alexander turns his head and whispers back to her, “More than anything.” He presses a kiss to her cheek. “Let me do this. And you’ll be close if I need you, this time.”

When Eliza pulls away her eyes are glassy, but she nods at him, understanding.   She takes a deep breath and curtseys in Burr’s direction, then marches past him, head held high as she exits.

And then there were two. Tension stifles, as tight as a spring on a trigger.

“Aaron Burr, sir,” Alexander says, a cue, and Burr responds, “Alexander Hamilton.” The way Burr says his name always sounds musical, lyrical, him taking the time to explore the sound of each consonant around the vowels.

From the bed, Alexander points to the chair next to him. “So we meet again.”

Burr mumbles a thanks as he takes a seat, says, “I knew you wouldn’t die. You always had to have the last word.” He’s looking at Alexander expectantly, like he’s trying to relearn how be around him. Alexander holds his hands up like, _you got me_. They both manage a smile.

Alexander pats his side where Burr shot him. “I’m lucky. A few inches to the right, and I’d be paralyzed.” He pauses, waits for regret to overtake Burr’s face, and then continues, just to drive home the point, “Or dead, more likely.”

“Don't say that.” Burr clenches his fist, flexes it open, a repetitive motion. “You’re acting like I purposely wanted to kill you, but I didn’t,” he says, voice in almost a desperate whine, like he _has_ to make Alexander know he means it. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Alexander crosses his arms. “Are you glad because I’m alive, or because you didn’t kill me?”

“Huh.” Burr bites his lip and sits back in the chair, like he’s not thought about the difference between the two until he was asked — that it didn’t matter as long as Alexander is alive, it’s not his problem.

“Both,” Burr says after deliberation.

At least he’s being honest. That’s a start.

Alexander gives Burr the space to speak; it’s what Burr wanted, after all.

However, when Alexander presents Burr with the opportunity, he seems surprised to have it. He furrows his brows and looks mildly alarmed that he has to think of something to carry on the conversation. It’s probably not going as he thought, either. 

“How are you?” Burr asks, landing on casual banter, but then curses under his breath. “Shit, I’m sorry. That’s stupid question. I should know better,” he says, and then makes a face and stares at where he shot Alexander.

Alexander shrugs. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he jokes. 

It isn’t Alexander’s intention to make Burr uncomfortable, but if he can be intimidated by just his presence then, awesome.

“What did you want?” Alexander asks, prompting, because Burr is taking too long to get to the matter, and if he’s being honest, he’s uncomfortable with Burr sitting next to him looking expectant. He doesn’t have anything else to give him. “I heard that you tried to visit me, but my gals stopped you.”

“Yeah.” Burr runs a hand over his head and down the back of his neck, rubbing at the closely shorn hair there. “I wanted to know,” he begins, slow, every word measured. “Your letter. You said you forgave me.”

“Yes,” Alexander says, not confirming nor denying. Burr had said it as a statement, not question. It’s a truth — he does forgive Burr, he had to in order for his soul to be considered pure on risk of death. Swearing to God almighty makes it official, basically. But if that weren’t the case, it’d still be the same. There was no other way it could've gone — Alexander can't blame fate.

“Is that all?” Alexander asks. “Confirmation that I’m not harboring anger towards you?”

Burr swallows. “That’s one thing. But that other part you wrote. What did you mean by it? _I know?”_

Ah, that.

“Remember when we said that dying was a lot less work?” Alexander asks, changing the subject. He looks to Burr for confirmation of the memory — it was long ago, right before the meeting where he traded away the Capitol for his banks. He had ran into Burr on the street and they spoke casually, joking. It’s a nice memory.

Burr nods. “I remember. Why?”

“Because we were wrong,” Alexander says. “It’s actually very hard to die.”

“Hamilton…”

“I tried to,” Alexander continues, disregarding Burr’s unease. “Die, that is. I was ready, I accepted it. You shot me and it’s partly my fault because I let you, but I was dying. It’s a different kind of _near death_ than during the war. It’s all around you then, but this was special. Just for me. And I think I did die, for a moment. It was…nice.”

Alexander pauses for effect and flits his eyes up and then smirks, because _yes_ , he’s got Burr hooked. Burr is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexander can hear his hitched breathing from where he sits a couple feet away.

“And then what happened?” Burr asks, hushed.

Alexander thinks of telling Burr of the Other Side, he thinks Burr would appreciate it, he’s lost people too — but Burr doesn’t _deserve_ it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexander says when Burr’s gaze feels too responsible. “It doesn’t matter because I didn’t die, and I could hate you for not making me dead enough to be in the ground.” 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Alexander.”

Alexander figures that Burr’s horror is justified, because he’s barreling towards outright self-destruction. It’s been a while. He hopes that Eliza isn’t listening from the hallway. He knows he should stop, he should just leave Burr in peace but he can’t, Alexander presses further, “You didn’t think of what it would do to me.” That his actions could send him to that place, but not harm him enough to have him stay. “As always, you were always thinking of yourself.”

“It was a _mistake_ ,” Burr says, pained, and if Alexander weren’t so riled up he might feel sorry for him. Burr defends himself, “How was I supposed to know you were going to delope? I was so…I was so angry! I thought you hated me.” 

Alexander scoffs, because that’s pretty damn funny because he thought Burr hated _him_. 

“Don’t take it so damn personal.” Alexander hates that he’s confined to his bed, because this would be the time that he’d flounce out of the room, ending the conversation. He doesn’t think that Burr would leave if he asked. Perhaps it’s time to call for Eliza to drag him out — he thinks of it, but Burr just won’t let it go, and Alexander won't either.

“Really? _I’m_ the one taking this personally?” Burr asks, and Alexander giving an uninterested shrug doesn’t help his temper, sending him into further ranting. “You’re the one all high and mighty about granting your precious _forgiveness_ when I wouldn’t have had to have it if you just apologized about that shit you said about me, and yet you’re being snippy to me—” 

“See what I mean? It’s all about you.” Alexander makes a finger gun motion and points at Burr. “In case you forgot, you shot me. Because I gave a political opinion. In politics.”

Burr lets out sigh, frustrated. “You can’t judge me by my worst act on my worst day.”

Un-fucking-believable.

 _“Your_ worst day?”

“Yeah,” Burr says, direct, unwavering. “I don’t think you’ve thought about how this is for me. That I hurt — that could have killed my…you.” 

Actually, Alexander has thought about it, a lot. Too much. That's why he threw away his shot — he couldn't be the guy who killed his...whatever Burr is. Friend. Enemy. Same thing.

“I’m innocent in this,” Burr insists. “It’s how duels go. You know that. I did everything right, according to the code.” 

“That’s true.” Alexander broke the rules and strayed from common procedure, and Burr conducted himself in a manner that anyone approaching an affair of honor should.

Burr looks up when Alexander agrees with him, looking for an offering of assurance that everything is okay.

But then Alexander lowers his voice and says, “But being innocent doesn’t mean you aren’t guilty.”

Burr buries his face and his hands and Alexander sees his shoulder heaving as he takes deep breaths to calm himself. It’s not the first time Alexander has witnessed Burr on the verge of a meltdown. On one memorable occasion many years ago, back when they shared offices and each other’s company and time, Burr had a fit seemingly out of nowhere, shoving items off his desk and then completely shutting down, sliding down a wall onto the floor. Alexander, having been startled by Burr’s uncharacteristic display of losing his composure, could do little else than coax him to stand, and guided him to lie on the couch as he talked to Burr like he would a spooked animal. A few minutes later, Burr had been fine, and excused it away as the result of exhaustion and outrage due to their case; Alexander still swears to this day that it had little to do with that, but more with the stress of his dying wife, but he never mentioned it.

Now, it’s the same as then — a bout of panic when everything is wrong and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Burr…” Alexander trails off, hoping Burr will finish it.

He doesn’t.

Alexander sighs; he knows they can find a middle ground, somewhere. He stretches, ignoring the pull of his side, and places his hand on Burr’s knee. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

Burr jolts like he’s been burned, his whole body twitching as he looks down at where Alexander’s hand rests on him. He jumps to his feet, mumbles something sounding like, “I have to go” and Alexander is left adrift as Burr quickly walks away, half-way stumbling.

“Yeah, run away, like you always do,” Alexander mumbles, loud enough so that he knows Burr will hear. It’s a low blow and not necessarily true, but it’s one last attempt, because it feels like if Burr leaves this time he won’t come back.

Burr stops at the door and looks over his shoulder. Alexander expects a scathing remark in return, but Burr just looks tired. As tired as Alexander feels. 

“You never said what you intended in your letter,” Burr says. “What do you _know_? What am I supposed to know?”

Alexander hears the unspoken, _tell me so I know what I did wrong._ He frowns. He thought it obvious, this, between them.

“It means,” Alexander says, “that I know I’d see you on the other side, whatever the outcome was.” 

Burr blinks. Hamilton wonders if it's what he expected. Pained, Burr whispers, “What does that mean?”

Alexander thinks briefly of the Other Side, its warm and welcome embrace. He closes his eyes and — it’s almost gone, now.

When Alexander opens his eyes, Burr is there. He’s part of what Alexander has left, here. He’s still looking at Alexander inquisitive, pleading Alexander to let him in on this secret that they share. 

“Aren’t we on the other side?” Alexander smiles _._ “There’s everything _before_ ,” he says, and the timeline stretches out in front of him, before their duel, before the intrinsic difficulties and artificial embarrassments between them, “and there’s everything _after._ We’re here on the other side.”

“Alexander.” It hits Burr heavily, and Alexander knows how he’s feeling — that hindsight makes everything seem less important, or more important, depending. He takes a deep breath, looks down before back to Alexander. “I’m so sorry.”

Across the room, Alexander gives him a grim smile. “I know.” It doesn’t seem to relieve Burr, any. He asks, “Am I going to see you again?”

Alexander is hoping for a smile, but he doesn’t get one.

“I…don’t know,” Burr admits. He looks to the door, his escape. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll go.”

If he’s wanting Alexander to beg him to stay, Alexander would, if he asked it. But Burr doesn’t, and Alexander says, “Okay,” and Burr nods and leaves without another word, and then Alexander is left alone again. 

That isn’t the end, either. He and Burr — they keep meeting.

 

* * *

 

He’s wondering if he could have said something different to Burr — which has been happening a lot — when Eliza returns.

“Hey,” she says, leaning against the back of the chair and ah — she’s a welcome sight, and all thoughts of Burr dissipate. 

“Hey, yourself,” Alexander says. He holds out his hand. “Join me?”

“Sure,” Eliza says, and closes the distance between them. They’ve done this a few times since he’s been better; Eliza toes off her shoes as Alexander scoots to the side of the bed and arranges the pillows and kicks back the blankets so she can lie next to him. They fit together perfectly, his front to her back, him curling around her and putting an arm across her middle to hold her close. It’s made both of them feel better, being able to feel each other near, safe.

“Missed you,” Alexander murmurs. She might think that he’s being silly, but it’s true — he always misses her when she not around. 

Eliza makes a humming noise in agreement, or maybe it’s just an automatic response to him saying something; she sounds distracted. Alexander finds her hand and intertwines his fingers with hers. “What’s wrong?” he whispers, only for her.

She squeezes his hand slightly, and Alexander can feel her sigh against him, resigned. Eliza doesn’t say anything and Alexander doesn’t press. He enjoys the moment, them spooning and the summer breeze coming in through the open window. He’s content, and he’s almost asleep when Eliza speaks. 

“Did you mean it?” Eliza asks, facing away from him and her tone even. “That you wish you were dead?”

Alexander has never felt more foul — he hates that Eliza overheard that. He doesn’t know why he said it — the misery of wanting to be dead so he could be _there_ could never outweigh this second (second, third, fourth, fifth) chance he has. As soon as he spoke it to Burr, it didn’t feel right, and with Eliza in his arms he knows it isn’t true. 

“Of course not,” Alexander says. He brushes her dark hair aside, kisses the back of her neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He feels Eliza’s body shake as she chokes on a sob. “I found your letter the other day. The one I would have got if you died.”

“No, Eliza—” 

“ _This letter, my very dear Eliza,”_ she says, her voice cracking on her own name. Alexander knows what she’s going to say, these would-be final words he can never forget. He can’t stop her as she continues, “ _will not be delivered to you, unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career.”_  

“Stop, please.” The reminder that he would have willingly left her alone is too horrible to bear. Of all his faults he's done, that is his worst — that he had tried to rationalize that he wouldn’t deserve her if he didn’t defend his honor, when he knows that she would be loyal to him until the end of time. He had been selfish, and he hasn’t accepted that about himself until now. 

Eliza skips ahead in the letter; she has it committed to memory too, and she repeats, _“I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world.”_

Alexander closes his eyes, blinks away tears. “I’m sorry, Eliza,” Alexander says. He tugs weakly at her arm. “Please look at me?”

She’s reluctant, but eventually Alexander is able to convince her to turn over so she’s facing him. He rests their foreheads together and he tells her, “I’m okay,” over and over, “I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay,” until she quiets him by placing her lips on his and kissing him, and then gently moves his head so his face rests against her shoulder.

“I know,” Eliza says as she rubs his back. “It’s okay.”

“I’m okay,” he mumbles against her skin, mostly to himself — saying it until he believes it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading!!  
> \- The letter Eliza is quoting is directly from the last letter real Hamilton wrote for real Eliza. [Read it and have emotions.](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-26-02-0001-0248)  
> \- Burr's line about "my worst act on my worst day" is from this interview with LOJ


	5. Aaron III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Political opposition can never absolve gentlemen from the necessity of a rigid adherence to the laws of honor. So, of course it's personal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's been a while since an update. I swear I didn't forget, but life got busy and then I went on vacation. But I'm back! Yay. Thank you all for the continued interest and nice comments! They make my day. 
> 
> Many thanks to videogamedoc87 for looking this over for me and offering suggestions. Otherwise, I'd still be agonizing over this.

Jefferson is cheerful. He’s jovial, even. Extra bouncy.

Normally, Aaron would breathe a sigh of relief and not question why Jefferson is in such good spirits, because when Jefferson is like this it usually means that it will be a good day for Aaron as well. Jefferson is only this happy when he’s scheming and about to ruin someone else’s day — or, life — and Aaron takes every opportunity to enjoy someone else being the subject of Jefferson’s _charms_ for a change.

However, Aaron knows that this time Jefferson’s unfiltered glee does not bode well for him. Today, Jefferson will ruin _his_ day. Aaron had been expecting it, if he’s being honest, ever since his…encounter with Hamilton. It’s something that Jefferson can’t ignore — he has to make an _example_ out of Aaron, and he will enjoy doing it. 

Jefferson zeroes in on Aaron as soon as he flounces into the room where Aaron had been _ordered_ to meet him (Aaron had received a letter at home from him, _meet me while I’m in New York or else_ , and Jefferson hadn’t specified what the _or else_ is and Aaron knew better than to test Jefferson’s creativity to come up with a consequence). They meet eyes, and Jefferson looks almost surprised that Aaron showed his face, his mouth agape and his shoulders slumped, but then he straightens up to his full height and smirks as he saunters towards him.

Aaron clears his throat and tries to appear casual, as if this were any other meeting — all meetings with Jefferson end badly, so the feeling of dread pooling in his stomach is nothing new. It’s been a perpetual state of being since he’s been in office; Jefferson was determined to make it so that Aaron won’t be the successor to the presidency (or anything else for that matter) for no other reason than _just because._ Well, it isn’t that simple, as nothing ever is — there already was a good dose of residual abhorrence between them, and then Jefferson took offense that Aaron didn’t agree with his entire Democratic-Republican ideology. Once inaugurated, Jefferson had wanted nothing to do with Aaron’s service, and in one fell swoop, Aaron became the opposition. Jefferson ignored his recommendations of executive appointments, purposely blocked his allies from gaining office, and he’s sure that Jefferson was the one to fan the flames of Aaron’s apparent disloyalty to the party. _Disloyalty_ is a far stretch, but perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to go to a Federalist get-together and make a toast for the “union of all honest men” — it only brought others’ attention between his and Jefferson’s executive rift, the implication that there were _dishonest_ men, and Jefferson took the opportunity to trash him.

“I thought of Burr as distrustful, I always have,” Jefferson had said to a group of Senators, purposely within earshot of Aaron. “I habitually cautioned Mr. Madison against trusting him too much.” 

They could withdraw if they wanted, detach themselves from the catastrophe that is Aaron’s career, but at least Aaron has the personal knowledge that at one point Jefferson and Madison trusted him — if only it were to use him.

( _“Tell us,” Jefferson asks after Madison whispered in his ear, “How can we best use this information to fuck Hamilton’s shit up?”_

_Aaron eyes the copies of documents that accuse Hamilton of alleged scandal. He wants to tell them, “Hamilton wouldn’t do that, there has to be a mistake,” but he knows that the two other men wouldn’t see it that way._

_(Later, he would be relieved that he was right — Hamilton wasn’t guilty of embezzlement, his only crime was an affair.)_

_“C’mon, Burr,” Jefferson says, smarmy, when Burr doesn’t respond. “You know Hamilton best. You have the power here to really make a difference.” He looks to Madison, who gives him a silent, curt nod. It must communicate something, because Jefferson then he returns his gaze to Aaron, smiling wide. “Your assistance will be deeply appreciated, and if this goes well, it can be very profitable for you.”_

_And Aaron, consumed by envy and intoxicated on the promise of ascension, tells them everything he knows to strike Hamilton where it would hurt most. How to ruin him. It surprises Aaron that he knows Hamilton that deeply. How funny, that he only realized that when he was betraying him.)_

Regardless of their trust or distrust, nothing to came to fruition for Aaron. Aaron had tried to be the best sycophant he could be without demeaning himself to the level of bootlicker, but once Jefferson decided he was done with Aaron, he was _done._ Jefferson has his plans for the reelection and Aaron has no place in then, which honestly, Aaron is thrilled — he’s ready to get the fuck out. He’s counting down the days that he no longer has a commitment to Jefferson. And Jefferson must be too — now that Aaron lost the governorship in New York, Jefferson sees him as useless (Aaron knows this because he’s told Aaron so, to his face) and has completely shut him out of all dealings.

With Jefferson, it’s either that you’re with him, or against him. Jefferson has made sure that being a friend to Aaron Burr means being an enemy to Thomas Jefferson, and while people necessarily may not want to be on Jefferson’s side, they don’t want _not_ to be.

Aaron doesn’t blame them. From experience, he knows that it’s a bad place to be.

In the present, Jefferson approaches as though all antagonism is forgotten, smiling wide and saying, “Burr, it’s so good to see you.” He reaches out offering a handshake, and Aaron takes it and returns it.

He isn’t fooled by his show of friendliness. Neither is Aaron.

“Mister President,” Aaron says, withdrawing his hand. Hair prickles on his arm, like prey being alerted of a nearby predator. “I wish I could say the same.”

Jefferson scoffs and puts a hand to his chest like Aaron’s words actually hurt him. “Ouch. You’re a vicious man, Aaron Burr,” Jefferson says, sitting in the chair across from Aaron, sprawled comfortably. “Are you going to have a temper tantrum and shoot me, too?”

Aaron closes his eyes. Breathes in, breathes out. He doesn’t think about how raspy Hamilton sounded when he had tried to do the same.

Someday, it won’t bother him. Someday, he won’t think about how Hamilton was so close to death. Someday, it won’t be a constant loop of _I almost killed him I shot him he was my friend he almost died and it’s because of me he was my friend._ Someday, he won’t think about what if things went differently, for better or for worse. Someday—

Someday, it won’t bother him.

But he’ll be damned if he lets anyone, lest of all Thomas Jefferson, know that it still bothers him today.

Aaron composes himself, and then adapts the same blank stare that he’s given Jefferson for the better part of the last four years after he realized that his method of _smile more_ would not work with Jefferson. Jefferson knows that tactic, perfected it into a weapon instead of something that appeals. He admittedly does it better than Aaron. But these days, it seems that everyone does it better than Aaron, so.

“Perhaps,” Aaron says, dryly. “But next time, I’ll aim better. The sun was in my eyes.”

“Sure.” Jefferson looks away, already uninterested. He’s clearly not impressed or baited by Aaron’s feeble attempt at humor.

Aaron hates to admit it, but Jefferson is really good at making him feel like he’s a nuisance. However, once Aaron got over the fact that his chances of succession in office were futile, he likes that he’s a bother to Jefferson. It’s fun, seeing Jefferson squirm with the want to be nasty to him but maintain a guise of professionalism.

“What do I owe this pleasure?” Aaron asks. “Surely you didn’t come all the way from the Capitol to discuss my marksmanship.”

Jefferson smiles, teeth flashing, as he tilts his head to the side, making his curly hair toss about. “Cut the bullshit, Burr. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“Humor me.”

Jefferson scoffs. “Okay, so you want to make this difficult,” he says, and he sits forward with his elbows on his knees. He scrunches his face up and waves his hand, like he’s trying to think of what to say, but he settles on a scathing glare and, “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

 _Everything,_ Aaron immediately thinks.

Instead, he shrugs. “Nothing that I can’t handle,” he says.

“Uh huh.” Jefferson sounds unconvinced. “Your life is perfect. Except that you’re incompetent at your job—”

“Because you’ve _made_ me incompetent,” Aaron mutters, but Jefferson cuts him off with a raised hand.

“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me.” Jefferson’s temper flares for a moment, but then he calms. “Burr. You are the very essence of a _hot mess._ Like I said, you suck at your job—,” and Jefferson pauses, waiting to see if Aaron interrupts him again. Aaron doesn’t. He knows when to keep his mouth shut, so Jefferson continues, “—you’re swimming in debt, both political parties reject you, you’re hated by the county, you have grounds to be indicted with criminal charges, and your minor disagreement with Ham-man was very nearly a public execution. So tell me, what do you have going for you?”

“My good looks?” Aaron responds, half-joking. He didn’t need a run-down of all his failures. Not often does he think of all of them at once — it’s too overwhelming.

“Let me break it down for you,” Jefferson says, sharp. “You thought I’ve done you bad? I had planned to _annihilate_ you. Make sure you can never rise to power to challenge me again.” His voice trails off. “But you went and ruined your reputation on your own. It’s a shame. I was looking forward to personally seeing to it.”

“Thanks for your honesty,” Aaron mutters. Aaron doesn’t doubt Jefferson’s claim at all. He bets that he’s been plotting it behind closed doors with Madison for months. Years, maybe.

“Don’t mention it.” Jefferson sighs. “In a few months, I’ll be re-elected—”

“Possibly,” Aaron says, but he knows Jefferson is right. The well-received Louisiana Purchase ensured that he would get a second term.

“—and thanks to the amendment, I’ll be running with someone I _want_ , and then we can go our separate ways,” Jefferson says. “As I’m sure you understand, I can’t be attached to someone who is as problematic as you. I can’t align myself with someone who _shoots_ people as a way of solving their disagreements.”

“Fine with me,” Aaron replies. He’s glad to be distanced from Jefferson — the southerner is a whole different kind of problematic. If Aaron is to prosper, it will not be with Thomas Jefferson and all his disagreeable ploys, but by some other method.

“Is that all you came here to tell me?” Aaron asks, hoping that he can be spared from his company.

“What, you don’t like chatting with me?” Jefferson asks, quasi-saccharine coating the venom underlying it. He’s goading Aaron on purpose, Aaron knows this — so he stays silent.

When Aaron stares blankly at him as a response, Jefferson sighs and says, “I have decided to be merciful and pardon your charges of dueling.”

“Wonderful,” Aaron says, deadpan. He hadn’t been very concerned because if someone seriously wanted to carry out the charges, he and Hamilton would be already be sharing a prison cell, and while Aaron doesn’t like to think himself egotistical, he doubts that some New York officer would have the gall to arrest him. Or Hamilton, for that matter.

He must not give the reaction that Jefferson had wanted, or maybe it’s the _exact_ reaction Jefferson wanted, because Jefferson’s face lights up with a wicked, dangerous smile that’s loaded with ammunition. Aaron knows that it makes Jefferson feel more comfortable about himself to make others degraded. He likes seeing people _struggle._ He likes for them to beg for mercy, and the fact that Aaron _won’t_ makes Jefferson keep trying, one small chip at a time. So far, Aaron hasn’t cracked, but it’s a matter of how long Aaron can endure it.

Jefferson says, “I’ve also excused your attempted murder.”

Aaron clenches his jaw. “Killing Hamilton was not my intention.”

“Oh,” Jefferson counters back, rapid fire, “So you only wanted to hurt him a little bit?”

Aaron doesn’t have an answer for that. He can’t answer it.

“Well, thanks for all your _help_ ,” Aaron says, sardonic. Jefferson’s miffed glare from being disregarded lifts Aaron’s mood. It certainly bothers Jefferson when people don’t take him seriously. That’s probably the most valuable thing Aaron has learned in office — because even though Jefferson knows how to attack him, Aaron has learned how best to get back at him.

It makes it almost worth it.

“I feel honored that you’d travel for days just to ridicule me,” Aaron says. “Things must be slow at work.”

“It’s not just about you, you dumb fuck.” Jefferson shifts in his seat. “I came to visit Hamilton and give him my regards.”

Aaron’s mouth tugs up into a grin. “I bet he loved that,” he says, chuckling — he can’t help but laugh. He imagines Jefferson awkwardly sitting next to Hamilton’s bedside while Hamilton hides under a blanket and hurls insults at him.

“I had nothing but well wishes for Hamilton,” Jefferson says. It sounds practiced. Terse. 

“Don’t you hate him?” Aaron asks. Over the last four years, he’s heard Jefferson curse Hamilton’s name at least every three days.

“Me? I despise the damn man,” Jefferson says, like _of course_. “Don’t you?”

Aaron’s face heats. “I do _not._ ”

Jefferson looks at him skeptically, his brows rising and his head tilted to the side _._ “Really? ‘Cause I’m not the one who shot him. You went and did that.”

“Touché.”

Indeed, Aaron did.

 

* * *

 

Aaron would like to deny it, that there is no way that he would have intentionally caused harm to Hamilton. It was just…a side effect. A means to the end he desired. He had gone to Hamilton with intention, a premeditated action to make Hamilton _pay_ — whatever the cost. His only thought was what it would cost him if he didn’t take action — it wasn’t until after that he realized that the consequences of doing so could be just as detrimental.

He’s not angry, not anymore. He’s just tired.

Theo asks him, “Was it worth it? Would you do it again?”

“That is unanswerable, and it’s senseless to waste my time pondering such a scenario,” Aaron responds, severe and straightaway — he doesn’t have to think of the answer. “I cannot turn back time.”

He doesn’t want to think about the things he can’t change.

But Theo persists. “It is not senseless to acknowledge that you regret it.”

Hamilton’s voice rings in his ears, _being innocent doesn’t mean you aren’t guilty._

“Yes,” Aaron says. “It was a mistake.”

An error of both of their judgments of the other.

 

* * *

 

Public scorn follows Aaron. Most of his allies have made themselves scarce because of the criticism that surrounds him — _I’m sure you understand_ , they tell Aaron, the unspoken _your company isn’t worth being dragged down the social ladder with you_.

Aaron does understand, and he doesn’t blame them. He convinces himself that he doesn’t need them, anyway. 

Van Ness is the only one who risks his image by being seen with him.

“They’ll get over it,” Van Ness assures him. They’re sharing a meal at an outside café; it had taken a lot of convincing on Van Ness’s part to get Aaron to venture into public. When Aaron glares at him from across the table Van Ness adds, “They’ll get over it _eventually_.”

With perfect timing, a man walks by and upon seeing Aaron, stops and snarls, “You’re that lousy miscreant Burr.”

“The one and only,” Aaron says, dipping his head down as if he were bowing.

The man curses, and then goes on his way.

Van Ness bites his lip and looks to Aaron nervously — a proper reaction for anyone who just got insulted by a grungy looking stranger. But Aaron is hardly fazed. He shrugs, takes a drink of his coffee and says, “You should have heard what the lady called me yesterday at the tailor.”

The other thing — Aaron can’t take a walk in town without someone accosting him and telling him their awful opinion of him. Like he cares what people think. They don’t know the whole story — that’s only between him and Hamilton.

His best method of defense are quips stated so plainly that they could be mistaken for the truth. It’s what people want to hear, and it’s easier than trying to defend himself. _Yes, I am the one who shot Alexander Hamilton, nice to meet you_ and _it’s up to you to decide if I missed or not,_ and then he gets creative, _I shot him because I was jealous of his hair_ and _it was a failed suicide pact._ Aaron is beginning to realize that he will always be defined by what he did to Hamilton. He and Hamilton are inextricably tied together — bound by what happened that summer morning on the Weehawken shore.

And now, they are on the other side — that’s what Hamilton had said. Aaron had thought that it would be the end, and he was ready to leave it at that. Selfishly take Hamilton’s forgiveness and reconcile with himself that it’s the right thing.

However, he feels it too — an inception, urging him to continuation.

 

* * *

 

He meets Hamilton again, and again, and again.

Going to see Hamilton has to be some kind of self-inflicted torture. Every time he visits, it’s odd to see Hamilton so indisposed but then Aaron _remembers_ —

—but he needs to remember. And with it, comes a serene acceptance, and soon the only thing that eases the anxiety that claws in his chest is being with Hamilton. An assurance that they’re still both alive.

Aaron makes the trip to the Grange every few days, for only a little while at a time, but then Hamilton says, “If you’re here, you’re welcome to hang around,” and Aaron takes the invitation and starts staying longer. And then he increases his visits to every other day, and then soon he’s at Hamilton’s every single day. It’s not like he has anything better to do. He gets used to the view of the city out Hamilton’s window, and Eliza brings Aaron tea and a book to read when Hamilton dozes off. He becomes familiar with all the Hamilton offspring. Aaron enjoy Sundays most — he stays with Hamilton for most of the day while most of his family are away at church, and they talk about everything and nothing.

Aaron studies Hamilton for clues of Hamilton treating him any differently. It’s a difficult task, because before the…incident they were speaking only by letters passed back and forth via go-betweens. Hamilton _should_ treat him differently, but his tone is cordial, and if it’s laced with some bite, that’s just typical of Hamilton. Aaron is sure that Hamilton is bored out of his mind and is using Aaron for entertainment, but that’s fine. Aaron is doing the same, if the truth were told.

It’s startlingly easy to talk to Hamilton. They start on common ground — Aaron tells Hamilton about his meeting with Jefferson and Hamilton laughs and says, “Yeah, Jefferson did visit me, and it was a clever move on his part. His show of goodwill towards me would appeal to the Federalists, and therefore possibly earn their support in the election.”

And it goes from there, them talking about whatever their conversation leads them to. The weather, books they’ve read, their children, memories from the war, nostalgia of when they practiced law together. It’s nice. And when Aaron goes to leave, he asks the same question— 

“Are you angry with me?” 

—and every time, Hamilton replies, “No,” and then Aaron nods, and then leaves Hamilton.

It’s the reassurance Aaron requires.

 

* * *

 

Aaron keeps visiting, and Hamilton never tells him to leave, which is a good enough reason to keep coming. He asks Hamilton a new question each time — it gives him reason to bring him back.

“Why the glasses?” Aaron asks one time, and when Hamilton gives him a confused look he clarifies, “If you didn’t intend to fire at me, why did you put on your glasses.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “To make sure I _didn’t_ hit you.”

Another time, Aaron asks, “Did you mean it? That you’d rather be dead?”

And Hamilton shakes his head and says, “Not anymore.”

“Good.”

And then late one night, when Eliza hasn’t chased him away yet, Aaron whispers, “Do you think me a murderer?”

“You haven’t killed anyone,” Hamilton whispers back, and then smiles that smile that make his eyes crinkle. “At least not _me_. If you’ve killed someone else, then that’s another story.”

When Aaron dares to ask the question of, “Why did you _really_ endorse Jefferson over me?” Hamilton sighs, like he had been expecting it.

“You wanted to be President just to be the President,” Hamilton says. “You wanted to have the prestige.”

Aaron frowns. “Of course. Who doesn’t?” There’s more to it than _that_ , but it’s a big component. To be the leader of the free country, to have everyone’s respect, to be _revered_. He pauses, and then asks, “…Don’t you?”

Hamilton shrugs. “My opportunity is long gone,” he says, forcing the words through a grim smile. He says it easy, obvious that he’s already thought about it and accepted it. “It’s impossible with my, ah,” he waves his hands, “reputation.”

“But if you had the chance, would you?” Aaron counters. He’s never known Hamilton to give up on something he truly desires.

For a brief moment, a glimmer of hope lines Hamilton’s face and the starry-eyed wonderment of it makes Aaron’s heartbeat jump with shared excitement — but then as soon as it appears, it’s gone.

“If there was a chance, perhaps. But there isn’t one,” Hamilton says, the finality of the conversation resonates between them.

The next day, Aaron brings a list that he had stayed up half the night writing — a list of everything he would have done if he had been elected President. Most of it is impractical and they both know that congress would never let something like _give women the vote_ happen, but it feels good to say it, nevertheless.

And the way Hamilton grins at him — like he’s proud — is breathtaking.

 

* * *

 

“Did you know the reason why I was so insulted was because it was _you_ who said those awful things about me?”

Hamilton seems surprised when Aaron asks it. Aaron doesn’t understand why — he had thought that their shared history together is worth something.

“I don’t know why you’re so stuck on that,” Hamilton says. He shifts in the bed, adjusting the pillows behind him so he can sit more upright. “If I had to pick someone to be by my side on the battlefield, or to like, play cards with, there’s no doubt that I would choose you over Jefferson. But for President…nah.” His tone is snappy, as if he’s tired of discussing the matter. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just the facts.”

“You called me a _dangerous_ man and said I was unfit for government,” Aaron says. “Political opposition can never absolve gentlemen from the necessity of a rigid adherence to the laws of honor. So, of course it’s personal.”

“Personal, like getting shot by someone — someone who you considered a friend — because you called them some names _personal_?” Hamilton’s chest heaves as he speaks, his voice rising to a near shout. “That’s about as personal as it gets!”

“Alexander, please calm down,” Aaron softly says, going to touch Hamilton’s arm to calm him. He’s concerned that Hamilton will over-exert himself and have a coughing fit, or worse — Eliza or Angelica will drag Aaron out and never let him back on the grounds. He doesn’t think too much about what Hamilton had said. It’s taken so long to get to the place where they are now. They can’t slip back into the hostility. Aaron isn’t sure if he could bear it.

Hamilton jerks his arm back. “You just have to get over it, Burr. If you can’t then…I’m not sure if this,” he says, gesturing between them, “can work.”

Aaron swallows. “I just need you to understand that—” 

“What?” Hamilton challenges. “What is it that you just can’t let go? Haven’t you had your say?”

Aaron stalls. _No,_ he wants to say, but he can’t pinpoint exactly what he wishes to say. He supposes he wants to much of Hamilton, but is entitled to nothing of him.

“Never mind,” Aaron says, sharp, and he gets up and slips on his coat. “Forget it.”

He leaves in a rush before Hamilton can say anything else. He doesn’t ask Hamilton if he’s angry with him. He doesn’t need the reassurance. He knows without asking.

They both know what they know.

Aaron lingers in the hallway outside the door to see if Hamilton calls for him to come back. He holds his breath and leans against the wall, listening. Hoping Hamilton will make a move.

“I know you’re there, Burr!” Hamilton shouts, and a few seconds later the water pitcher is thrown from the room into the hallway, it crashing against the wall and its contents spilling onto the ground.

Aaron is gone before anyone can come check on the commotion.

 

* * *

 

After that, Aaron believes that all prospects of mending a relationship with Hamilton are over. He lies in bed for the rest of the night and gives Theo monosyllabic answers when she asks what happened.

“It can’t be that bad, Papa,” Theo says, almost cooing, “I mean, this isn’t the worst that you’ve been through with Mr. Hamilton.”

Aaron shakes his head, and speaks muffled into the pillow, “No.”

His lethargy lasts for three days, brooding over everything and nothing, until Theo comes and holds out a letter for him to take.

“I’m not in the mood for correspondence,” Aaron says, refusing the letter. “If it’s from Van Ness, write back to him and tell him I’m fine and that I wish he’d go bother someone else.”

Theo tosses the letter in his lap and crosses her arms. “It’s from Hamilton.”

Intrigued, he picks it up and it is Hamilton’s writing on the outer envelope. “Oh my god, he gave in first.”

“Not that I think that matters, but perhaps it means he wishes to speak to you,” Theo says. She smiles as Aaron tears into the letter. “Well?”

Aaron huffs, but has to hold back a grin as his eyes scan the carefully written script.

 

 

 

> _Dear A. Burr,_
> 
> _Your absence has gone noticed within the household. I suppose I am well, as you seemingly have retired your worried vigil by my bedside! Overjoyed at the possibility of Miraculous healing, I tested the theory, but after my experiment, I found that I am still injured. I would describe the nature of my wound to you, but I believe that you are familiar with it._
> 
> _As you have apparently discovered something else to occupy the better part of your time, I shall give up an update on the happenings you have missed. William lost his first tooth — that was quite the excitement. Angie’s parakeet Leonard is molting — less exciting. I have calculated the exact time that the sun passes behind the line of trees on its journey to the horizon to return the next day. It is all riveting material. I am sure that all of these topics are fascinating to someone who is entertained by the mundane, such as Yourself, but I require much more stimulating passtimes. I’m deteriorating from ennui, Burr. I hate to put those words into existence by ink on this page, as my family is dear to me, but they don’t inspire the same exhilaration that your conversation brings. Or exhaustion — I have been lying awake for hours the last few days because I haven’t been stricken to slumber from your dull comments. Ha! I jest. You’re dull only sometimes._
> 
> _Without something to keep my mind and body sharp, I fear that I may perish, and because you are the cause for my other recent brush with death, I believe that you “owe me one” as the saying goes, and should continue your habits that I have grown used to over the more recent couple weeks. Eliza accuses me of chasing you away, which..._
> 
> _I request your company at your earliest convenience. Or not at your convenience, because I suspect that you shall create any excuse to delay._
> 
> _I have the honor to be,_  
>  _Your obedient servant,_  
>  _A. Hamilton_

 

And just like that, Aaron is drawn in once more.

This time, he brings Theo so he has someone on his side, and to soothe his nerves. Her accompaniment is under the guise of her befriending Hamilton’s eldest daughter, but he knows Theo knows the real reason. She pats his arm and says, “Of course, Papa,” when he rambles about the benefits of a lady companion near her same age and upbringing.

Theo charms, as usual, and doesn’t even blink when Angie says, “Thank you, but Philip plays better,” after Theo compliments her skill on the piano.

While the girls chatter, Eliza comes up beside Aaron, touches his arm and says, “Alexander is waiting for you.” She smiles warmly at him, and with that and Hamilton’s request to see him, Aaron has no reason to hold back. However, he feels a tug to leave _—_ he feels like a fool that he can be simply _summoned_ by Hamilton through letter, there’s the underlying fear that this isn’t worth it. That no matter how many times they try, that their…friendship will splinter, and leave nothing behind but the damage wrought.

“Go,” Eliza says, encouraging, and then gives him a little shove. Aaron looks over to Theo, who smiles, and then goes back to discussing poetry with Angie.

Maybe, this time will be different, Aaron decides as he goes up the stairs to Hamilton’s room, alone.

Hamilton is waiting for him when he arrives in the doorway; he’s sitting propped up with an abundance of pillows, his hair fluffy and hanging down around his shoulders, his glasses perched on his nose as he reads from a book. Hamilton is engrossed in the text, his mouth slightly parted as he absent-mindedly twirls a lock of hair around his forefinger. Aaron watches Hamilton read for a few minutes, not wanting to disturb him — not just because it is rude to stop someone during a good read, but because Hamilton is always captivating in his actions, even the mundane.

After a few page turns, and when Aaron knows that Hamilton doesn’t realize he’s there, Aaron knocks on the open door.

Hamilton looks up at the sound, and then _smiles_ when he sees Aaron. Aaron isn’t sure if he should approach or not, and Hamilton is being uncharacteristically passive. The result is them staring at each other in silence _—_ Hamilton grinning at Aaron like a loon, and Aaron stiffly standing in the doorway.

The moment feels distinct.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, rushed, but it’s overlain with Hamilton’s voice saying, “I’m sorry,” at the same time. They laugh _—_ it eases the tension, and Hamilton’s laugh is light and airy to Aaron’s ears.

“C’mon, you,” Hamilton says, beckoning Aaron over as he closes his book and takes off his glasses, and then places both on the table next to him. “Have a seat. I’ve been saving it for you.”

Aaron takes his usual seat next to Hamilton, and leans back, casual. “You look good, Alexander. I think you over exaggerated the effect of your _ennui_ on your health,” Aaron wryly says.

“Well, the day is still young,” Hamilton says, and moves to sit straighter, but then he gasps and grabs at his bad side, wincing with clenched teeth and his forehead scrunching in pain.

“Hamilton!” Aaron exclaims, panicked, sitting forward in the chair to be closer to Hamilton. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, it sounds like a beat of _your fault. your fault. your fault._ “Are you okay? Alexander?”

Hamilton lets out a shuddering exhale, then takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m okay,” Hamilton mutters, but it sounds like it’s more to himself than to Aaron. He takes in a deep breath, Aaron can see him forcing himself to, and then he lets it out slow, and repeats. “I’m okay.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Just moved a little too quickly. I’m not as young as I used to be,” Hamilton says, meeting Aaron’s gaze at first, but then his eyes travel downward. Aaron follows his line of sight, and sees his hand resting on Hamilton’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against his neck. Aaron hadn’t even realized he had reached out for him, it had been automatic.

He’s still contemplating it, but then he’s brought back to his thoughts when Hamilton brings up his own hand and places it on top of Aaron’s.

Aaron pulls his hand back, it sliding out from under Hamilton’s, and then curls it to his chest before letting it fall into his lap. 

“Sorry,” Aaron says. He isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for — the breach of personal space, or because of the pain he’d caused Hamilton. He decides to expand on the easiest to address, asking, “I’m sorry that you’re…going through this.”

“No worries,” Hamilton says, light, like it’s no big deal that he’s been lain up in bed for weeks, or that Aaron is the one who put him there. It’s worrying to Aaron, but what concerns him the most is the fact that Hamilton has suffered so much, that it is probably commonplace for Hamilton to convulse in pain.

“I’m fine, really,” Hamilton insists. “It’s said that Alexander the Great survived a chest wound, so I’m sure Alexander Hamilton can survive a bullet wound.” 

Aaron scoffs. “No wonder people accuse you of being a monarchist.”

“Well, _aren’t_ I great?” Hamilton asks, his tone attempting serious but his face betrays him — his mouth twitching to fight a smile, a smile that has already lit up his eyes. Aaron appreciates it for a moment while he comes up with a retort, but before he can, Hamilton shakes his head and laughs to himself, coughs, says, “Well, _great_ apart from everything that’s wrong. Which I’ve been told is a lot.” 

“But you’ll be fine, right?” Aaron asks, hopeful. He’s been claiming that he is relinquished of responsibility, but _protocol_ doesn’t ease the guilt that makes him sick to his stomach. 

“I can die yet,” Hamilton says, looking far off, focusing on something beyond Aaron. “We never know when it’s our time to go, and now I am more familiar with that certainty than ever. Life is…unmanageable. It does as it wishes.”

Aaron knows this. He knows the things that he cannot control. Love. Life. Death. He has accepted this long ago, and then again when he tried to change his fate — he will only ever be an accessory to these forces, and it’s both distressing, but comforting that he can never do anything to change it.

Hamilton had asked if he was _great_. Looking at him now, Aaron sees Hamilton in all his glory — bright, even though he’s been considerably dulled. It has been said that Hamilton isn’t great, not even _good_ — Aaron has said that of him, too. But throughout it all, Hamilton still has that something, that _spark_ that made Aaron turn around and give to a rambling, fresh-off-the-boat Hamilton another chance and then offer him a drink.

Maybe this is another chance to give Hamilton an offering. He won’t let it go. 

“If you live through this, I’ll…” Aaron’s voice trails off, thinking of what to say that would give Hamilton the drive to stay alive, or a promise that is substantial enough that the universe will make sure it happens — a bargaining for his soul. _I’ll do anything,_ he wants to say, but that’s not specific enough, but then he knows, and it comes out rushed and unbidden.

Aaron says, “If you live through this, I’ll help you gain presidency.”

And then he waits.

Hamilton stares at him blankly, and Aaron is sure that he’s going to tell him to leave and never return, but then Hamilton’s mouth tugs into a grin, and there’s a laugh that dissolves into a cough before he speaks.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” Hamilton says, not even trying to hide his skepticism.

But that’s fine. Hamilton can doubt him. He’ll see.

Aaron smiles. “Just you wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo if you have been following me for a while, you might have seen a part of this chapter before. Because it's something I thought about forever, Burr promising Hamilton to help him become President.
> 
> References!  
> \- some lines taken directly from the [Burr-Hamilton letters leading up to the duel](https://en.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Hamilton%E2%80%93Burr_duel_correspondences).  
> \- [Jefferson's thoughts on Burr](https://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/aaron-burr). Also more about how they fell apart, it's super interesting.  
> \- Burr really did give a toast like that at a Federalist shindig.  
> \- Hamilton [talking about how the animosity between Burr and Jefferson is Good](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-26-02-0001-0011)
> 
> anyway, thank you for sticking around and reading, and any comments you may have. you are awesome.


	6. Alexander III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry," Alexander says. He seems to be saying _I'm sorry_ a lot these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this has taken forever and a day, but I the future I'm going to try and be more consistent. As an apologize, here's an almost 10k chapter of...stuff.
> 
> there's some discussion of Hamilton's physical and mental health, and how he feels about it, just thought I'd mention that
> 
> ALSO: fancasting!  
> \- [José Ramos](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/image/149534855982) as Al  
> \- [Karen Fukuhara](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/149396939892/dcfilms-karen-fukuhara-at-the-suicide-squad) as Angie  
> \- [Kiersey Clemons](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/149476547387/queenqueerkyra-kiersey-clemons) as Theo  
> Thank you so much for every comment, kudos, message, just being here and reading that you've given for this. It thrills me more than you can know, and I appreciate it!
> 
> And thanks to videogamedoc87 as always, for listening to me whine about writing when it's difficult, and reading parts over to make them better

In the days that follow, Burr does not speak of it again, but it consumes Alexander’s thoughts.

_Him — President?_

What a joke.

However, a _joke_ is running the country now, and there was another before him — Jefferson and Adams are both idiots in their own way — so perhaps his shot at the job isn’t as impossible as he had believed.

Alexander would be a good president. He doesn’t think that it’s too egotistical to say so, because there’s no doubt about it. He was instrumental in founding their country and helped to make it what it is, and he has the experience — he was the right hand man to the only _true_ president their young country has seen to date. And he has the charisma, the drive to lead — he could do it, if given the _chance._

He had a chance, once. He had it, and then he lost it. Squandered. Alexander remembers how it felt as it slipped away and he was unable to do anything other than watch as his reputation was ruined and know that he did it to himself.

 _You’re never gonna be President now,_ Jefferson had said, taunting, as he flipped copies of the Reynolds Pamphlet in his face. _Thanks for doing the work for me!_

The worst part is, he knew Jefferson was right. So, he stopped thinking of the possibility of it.

Alexander likes his life. It’s quiet — which is something he never thought he could find solitude in because it leaves too much _space_ but he’s found himself to treasure it, how it allows for things he might’ve missed previously. He loves his family and his job, and he’s regained enough respect that he feels confident to say his name amongst public circles. He’s made a place for himself, and if he were to die, his legacy is something that he’d be proud to leave behind. It’s taken him a lifetime, but he’s learned—accepted what he was told long ago: you have no control who tells your story. History will decide your place within it, no matter your actions or wishes.

He had an ending, once. It was an ending, but then it wasn’t — he didn’t die. _Not yet,_ he was told in something that wasn’t quite a dream, _you still have more work to do_. It felt like another chance, finally. And, well.

Who is he to argue with fate?

Alexander curses Burr for even suggesting the topic. Burr, with his stuffy attitude and peculiar ways, like biting his lip when he disagrees with Alexander or taking his coffee without sugar, disastrous _Burr_ promising him impossible things like it would make things better between them, wanting to help Alexander when he can’t even help himself.

He doesn’t know since when Burr was given to such whimsy — but then again, Burr has been surprising him as of late.

He doesn’t need Burr and his stupid ideas, and he’s ready to tell Burr that the next time he sees him. But Burr doesn’t mention the presidency again, and Alexander doesn’t ask. He saves Burr from the embarrassment, and he doesn’t want to make Burr think that he’s actually _interested._ And besides, he doesn’t know what terms and conditions that would come along with it; he knows that Burr wouldn’t offer something so substantial without expecting something in return.

Alexander isn’t disappointed. Burr must’ve realized what he already has: it’s futile.

 

* * *

 

Comparable to the condition that he was in previously, Alexander is better. If being able to walk a few steps without collapsing can be called _progress_.

The prognosis he has been given is good; all the visible evidence that’s left is a red scar on his side, and he’ll be fine as long as he starts to get up so his muscles don’t atrophy. The first time Alexander gets up, there’s searing pain across his abdomen like he’s being ripped open and everything hurts, his vision goes a little fuzzy, and he swears there’s no way that recovery was this bad when he was injured in the war.

 “You were twenty-five years younger then, honey,” Eliza says, pushing Alexander’s hair away from his sweaty forehead when he complains about it. “It’s bound to be more difficult, now at your age.”

Alexander huffs. “I don’t appreciate you calling me _old_ ,” he mutters. From the armchair, he looks to his bed. It’s only a few steps away, but it already exhausts him to think that he has to walk back that short distance.

Eliza twirls a lock of Alexander’s hair between her fingers, and says, “Well, I mean…,” introspective. Alexander turns to see her with her head tilted and looking down at the hair in her hands, giving a pointed look at the hints of gray peppered throughout his dark hair.

“I thought you said the gray makes me look distinguished,” Alexander says. “Wise.” 

Eliza drops his hair, leans in to kiss him. “Yes,” she says. “My wise, old husband.”

Wisdom doesn’t make him stop hurting, however.

When Burr visits that day, Alexander isn’t very happy to see him. Burr doesn’t seem to take offense when Alexander snaps at him, says, “Thanks to you, I have the mobility of a toddler.”

Detached, Burr says, “You should have dodged the bullet then, as you think yourself so nimble.” He turns a page in his book. “And it’s more like you have the mobility of an elder.”

Alexander narrows his eyes. “Did Eliza tell you to call me old?”

There’s a hint of a smile that Burr hides behind his book.

Alexander doesn’t put it past both Burr and Eliza working together to encourage him to heal quicker. Devious, but it works — he wakes early in the morning and shuffles back and forth from his bed and chair, stopping to rest on them when he pushes himself beyond when he would usually stop. He doesn’t think that he’s ever been more worn out or discouraged, and it’s not even noon when he passes out in the chair for a nap, only to start again when he’s awake. It’s exhausting but he pushes through the pain, determined.

A few days of this habit ( _torture_ , Alexander thinks), and he can tell that he’s improved. The interval at which he has to stop and rest increases, and soon he dares to go down the hall to visit other rooms — he’s almost as surprised as James and John are when he barges into the library.

He hasn’t attempted the task of going downstairs — Eliza won’t let him, and that’s fine because he has this vision of him tumbling down them and cracking his head on the floor, what a shame that would be, death by stairs after all he’s been through — so he keeps to the floor that his sick room is on. It’s not much, but it feels like _freedom_ to Alexander; it’s good to not be restricted to his bed. He’s starting to feel more like himself. Recovering.

But what does _not_ make him feel great is the package delivered from Jefferson on a Tuesday afternoon. Most things from Jefferson are unpleasant, and this isn’t any different. In the letter attached to it, Jefferson calls it a _gift, to help you in your troubled time_ , but Alexander considers it an insult and makes him feel like he hasn’t made any headway towards healing at all. 

“What the fuck,” Alexander mutters, glaring at the open box on the foot of the bed as if it contains Jefferson himself. Within in the box is a cane, made with a rich dark wood and curved at the top for a handle, adorned with silver embellishment. He turns to Eliza. “Why would he send me this?”

“It’s a _walking_ stick, Alexander. It helps you walk,” Eliza says, and Alexander doesn’t like the insinuation that he does actually need it to get around. He does just fine holding on to the wall and furniture for support, and soon he figures he won’t need that.

Eliza picks up the cane and runs her hand down its smooth surface, admiring the intricate carving on the handle. “It’s nice. I’ve seen Jefferson using one similar.”

Alexander snorts. Jefferson carries one as more of a fashion accessory, and Alexander has an inkling that he has other uses for it too that don’t involve supporting his swaggering walk.

“I’m sure he envisioned smacking me with it when he picked it out,” Alexander says, and Eliza gasps, scandalized. Alexander shrugs. “Do you really think Thomas Jefferson wants to help me out of the _goodness_ of his heart?” he asks, using finger quotes around the skeptical phrase. “The longer I’m out of commission, it’s beneficial to him. He sent me this as a…as a humiliation!” 

He feels his face flush, his cheeks hot, surprisingly embarrassed over his impediment being called out. He considers it as shameful as when he was bedridden and unable to do anything for himself, even though that had its share of humbling embarrassments (others washing him off with wet cloths, having his putrid wound changed, needing assistance to be fed because he didn’t have the strength to lift a spoon to his mouth). He can’t help it if he’s a proud man. 

Eliza sighs, tersely, and puts the cane back in the box. “Not everyone is your enemy,” she says. “You’re being difficult.”

Alexander frowns. It sounds a lot like _it’s time to get over it._

“I apologize if I’m insufficient, but I wasn’t aware my suffering had an expiration date,” Alexander says, harsh, because he’s _tried_ and he’s beginning to worry that he’ll never been normal again, and nobody seems to be concerned about that even though they’re pushing him to be as he once was.  “I’m alive, what more do you want? Because apparently I’m not enough as I am.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He’s _never_ spoken so cruel to Eliza, and tears well in his eyes as he registers the hurt in hers. He knows that he’s taking out his frustrations on her, but that isn’t an excuse because if anybody is on his side, it’s her — even when he doesn’t deserve it.

“Eliza — _Betsy,_ I’m sorry,” Alexander begins, his voice cracking, and he reaches out to her, but she steps back and shakes her head. She slips away before he can catch her or get in another word, her quick steps echoing in the hall and then down the stairs, going where he can’t follow her. 

Cursing, he closes the lid to the box and knocks it on the floor, kicking it under the bed to hide the cane away. He sits on the bed, winded from the little bit of exertion, but the ache he feels is for a whole different reason.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a surprise when Angelica brings him his lunch instead of Eliza.

“Hey,” Alexander tries, friendly and looking from his seat, but Angelica’s wordless glower tells him that she already knows everything that happened earlier. She ignores him, setting the tray down on the table so it’s just out of his reach and with more force than necessarily, sending the plates and cutlery rattling and spilling his tea out and soaking his bread.

Alexander makes a disgusted face looking at the food, but then he sees Angelica her with arms crossed and an unsympathetic expression like she’s daring him to complain. He knows better to test her, so he forces a smile, says, “Thanks. This will be something uh, new to try.” 

“Sure,” Angelica says, short, and then her gaze softens. “How are you feeling today? Healthy? Headache?”

“I’m fine…,” Alexander says slowly, wrinkling his forehead in confusion as he looks at her. He had thought that she would ask something else — address the tension between them because they both know that he fucked up, and she’s obviously pissed off at him, she’s never more angry when it concerns Eliza, and—

It doesn’t hurt when Angelica slaps him, not really enough to even sting, but it’s effective nonetheless — a quick smack to his cheek that makes him turn away from her and look down, and as soon as she’s touched him she pulls her hand back quick like she’s touched fire.

“I deserved that,” Alexander says, and he’s ready to admit that he really deserves a lot worse. He looks up through his eyelashes at Angelica. She’s got her hand curled to her chest and clenched into a fist, and her eyes look wet, and there’s another stab of guilt that he’s hurt someone else, too. “I suppose you know what I said to Eliza. I didn’t mean it, I was…” 

His voice trails off. He isn’t sure what he intended by it. It isn’t his aim to garner sympathy, he just wants someone to _understand._

When Alexander doesn’t supply a reason, Angelica sits next to him and then looks outside, letting out a long sigh, like she’s exhausted. Alexander figures that she probably is. Tired of his bullshit. He doesn’t blame her.

Angelica’s hand falls to her lap, and returns her gaze to Alexander. Even though her anger has faded, it’s difficult to face her — she looks sad, weary, and there’s an air of reproach that strikes Alexander. He can’t decipher if the disappointment is for him, or her. Probably both. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” she starts, but Alexander waves his hand to stop her.

“It’s fine,” Alexander says. “It’s inexcusable to have said such awful things to Eliza.” He feels like it’s the start of a fine apology until Angelica scoffs. “What did I say wrong now?”

“You don’t get it,” she says, some of the heat from earlier returning. “ _That_ wasn’t just for your comments to Eliza today. It’s for all of it. All that you’ve put us—” She stops herself, restarts, “All that you’ve put her through.” She lets out a shuddering breath. “She didn’t send me here, I came of my own volition, because I am hurt, too.”

“Angelica…” He goes to lay his hand on hers, but she jerks it away.

“You were thinking of only yourself, once again,” she says. “You could have _died_ , Alexander. We thought you were going to, and I don’t know what we would’ve done—”

“But I didn’t.” It’s something that he keeps repeating, and he puts his hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat to confirm it. “I’m here.”

This time, Angelica lets Alexander take her hand. He holds it gently, keeping her gaze as he brings it to his chest and places it where his had been, so she can feel his heart thudding steady against her palm. They stay like that for a while, his hand covering hers as she splays hers against him, her leaning forward in her chair towards him with her arm outstretched. Her other hand clutches her skirt, twisting the silky material as they edge closer together, the rustling of it and their breathing the only sounds in the room. They’re close enough now that Alexander can see tears shining in her eyes, and he doesn’t think she’s cried at all — not in weeks, not when he was dying and floating between here and somewhere else, not when he fought through. He studies her, how her kind eyes look back at him, how her lips tremble as she tries to hold back her tears, how _shattered_ she looks, and he knows, he sees within her his mistakes. Angelica has always been able to make him truly see.

He rests his forehead against hers, breathes out in a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Angelica whispers back. Alexander wishes that they could stay like this for a while longer, but the moment passes — she pulls away, kisses Alexander’s forehead, and then slips her hand out from under his. His chest feels too cool, something missing against him.

“I don’t think you realize how hard this has been on Eliza. On all of us,” Angelica softly says. “We’re just trying to help.”

 _Trying to help._ He keeps hearing that phrase from everyone — Eliza, Angelica, Jefferson, people he doesn’t even know, Burr. Everyone seems to have the solution to his problems, telling him what he needs — as if they have any idea what he needs. Trying to help him get better, all of them wanting something from him, wanting him to be something that he doesn’t know he can be, or wants to be. The expectations make him anxious. He’s always met expectations, exceeded them. He doesn’t want to start failing them, _can’t_ fail them, because it feels like another singular failure would start the foundation for others to follow, one by one, until there is a collapse and there’s nothing left that he recognizes of himself to support him.

But — he doesn’t entirely recognize himself, now.

Alexander bites the inside of his cheek. “It doesn’t _help_ me when I feel inferior.”

“That’s a projection on yourself,” Angelica replies, scathing, not accepting his answer.

But Alexander doesn’t accept her answer either. “No, it’s not,” he argues, but he doesn’t put a lot of effort into disputing it. Angelica has known him for too long, and she is too like-minded as him to be fooled. “I cannot help if I feel that way.”

Angelica knits her brows together. “Do you really think that we purposely cause you to feel shame?” She waits until Alexander shakes his head before continuing, “I apologize if your ego is damaged, but you know, you are quite stubborn.” 

Alexander cracks a smile. “Yes, I believe that I’ve been told that before.”

Angelica returns the smile before it falters. Alexander’s disappears with hers. 

“I know this is difficult for you,” Angelica begins, “but someone has to say it, because nobody else is going to.” 

“Oh no,” Alexander says, half-teasing as he attempts to recapture the lighthearted conversation of a few seconds earlier, but half-serious, as Angelica often spoke the hard truth that Alexander didn’t always want to hear.

She remains stern, the apparent bearer of bad news. She says, “Stop wallowing in grief that isn’t justified.”

Alexander blinks, taken aback. “Isn’t _justified_?”

“Yes,” Angelica says, committing to her belief. “This may be harsh, but accept that you’re alive. Be thankful for that, move on, and stop being petty about the particulars.”

“I’m _not_ petty,” Alexander objects, but then Angelica raises her brows and inclines her head and _ah,_ he has just proved her point. He shrugs and asks, “So what if I am? I was betrayed, shot. Do you recall any of that?”

“It mustn’t concern you too much, as you are on friendly terms with your shooter.”

“Hmm.” Alexander admits that she has a point. _Know thy enemy_ comes to mind, although he doesn’t consider Burr his enemy, not anymore. He knows him — he thinks of Burr sitting by his bedside, taking lunch with him, them sitting next to the window in the library watching as their daughters stroll in the garden. Burr isn’t his enemy, and he’s confident that Burr doesn’t see him that way either — at least, he hopes. 

“It’ll be fine,” Angelica says. “You just have to be patient.”

Alexander isn’t convinced — there is something that has been worried him, something that he hasn’t spoken to anyone, and has hardly let himself consider.

“What if I don’t get any better?” he asks, quiet. “What if this is it?” He gestures down at himself, a broken-down something of what he once was.

Angelica considers him for a moment before answering. “Then you’ve tried your best, and it’s okay.”

Alexander doesn’t want to be just _okay._

“However,” Angelica continues, pausing Alexander in his thoughts before they have really begun, “Before anyone else can help you or you can improve, you first have to help yourself.”

 _Easy,_ Alexander thinks. That’s what he’s always done — almost everything he has in life is something that he’s obtained on his own (his escape from St. Croix, his education, his commission and rank, his place in government (and his subsequent fall), his family), and his recovery will be no different.

He’ll do it — or die trying.

 

* * *

 

So he tries.

The next day, he makes sure that Eliza sees him using the cane that Jefferson had bestowed upon him, because his actions are better than anything he could say. She acknowledges it, granting him a pleased smile when he hobbles into the library, still trying to figure out the mechanics of using it to aid his step. It’s awkward, putting it ahead of his feet and then using his upper body strength to drag his injured side along, taking an inhale to catch his breath, and then repeat. It’s more complicated than he had thought it’d be, and his arm already hurts, but it’s worth it when Eliza comes to him (thankfully saving him from slowly approaching her when she can get to him much faster) and says, “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t intend to make you feel bad, I just wanted—”

Alexander quiets her by putting his finger to her lips. “No need to apologize,” he says. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Eliza playfully hits his chest, says, “You’re admitting that you were _wrong_?” and Alexander goes, “Yeah, yeah,” and all is forgiven.

However, when Eliza is away, he doesn’t use the cane as much. He sets it against the small dresser in the room, and goes back to his original method of slumping against the wall or sturdy items, such as the chair, to get around. He doesn’t need the damned walking stick; it’s a hindrance, and he keeps forgetting it when he gets up and then he has to go back and get it, and that’s more steps, and it makes his already troubled gait clumsier. Admittedly, it does help him — it helps steady his off-kilter balance and he can discreetly lean on it when he needs a moment to rest because his lungs are still weak from the inactivity, but he’ll be damned if he says so.

He struggles through another week, and his stamina and health improves — he sleeps less, freely wanders on the second floor throughout the day doing what he wishes, and doesn’t dread every time he has to lift his ass out of a chair. Even though he is much better, his step is still hitched because it fucking _hurts,_ a pain in his side that makes his leg not cooperate all the time, and something just doesn’t generally feel like it used to. _Might’ve nicked your spine,_ the doctor says, _you’re lucky._

 _Lucky,_ Alexander thinks of this when he’s bent over at the window, coughing, his breath rasping deep in his chest. Burr is there, Alexander can feel him watching — he does that now, he never takes his eyes off him — he feels his heavy intensity bearing into him.

When his cough subsides, he leans on the windowsill with both hands, his shoulders hunched. He looks up and first sees his own reflection in the window (fatigued, visibly thinner, his sun-kissed glow not as bright, his clothes loose-fitting), but then he sees Burr’s image in the glass; he’s a few steps behind Alexander with his arm extended but his hand clenched into a fist, like he was reaching out to him but then thought better of it but couldn’t fully retreat, and his expression undecipherable, guilt pity worry.

“I’m fine,” Alexander says to Burr’s reflection.

“I know,” Burr responds.

 _Fine_ is a relative term, after all.

 

* * *

 

Alexander feels most like himself when he’s working. He takes easy casework that he can do from his home, such as settlements that do not have to go to court or letters to advise on matters that he is qualified to give opinion on. It is a good distraction for his dulled and tempered mind, but to earn some meager income for their dwindling money. He’s uncomfortable of the debt that his family is in — he shudders to think about dying and leaving them burdened with it — and he intends to get them out of it. It shouldn’t be too difficult, as it turns out that having his name brought back into the public conversation has reminded the people that he exists, and has caused them to seek him out for business.

However, there is only so much that he can do out-of-office or traveling, and neither he or Eliza want everyone in New York City trudging through their home.

He needs to get out. It’s been over two months since the incident in Weehawken, and he’s the most self-reliant he’s been in several weeks. He’s restless, antsy with the need to _go_ and rejoin society, it itches at his brain every moment that he stays cooped up. He thinks, _people will talk_ and _maybe I can’t,_ but then he remembers that he’s never cared much about the opinion of others when it concerns something they doubt of him except that it just gives him an opportunity to prove them wrong, and that he’s the only one limiting himself.

Alexander thinks of this while he rests from earlier, where he had paced the hallway twenty-seven times. He scans the newspaper, and what it tells him is this: _things are happening without him._

He throws the paper down in annoyance, rises from his chair ( _groans_ , that pain isn’t going away anytime soon), goes to the small desk in the library that he’s taken as his temporary workspace, and pens a short letter.

  

 

 

 

> _Mr. Burr, Sir—_
> 
> _Although I know you are a busy man, mister Vice President, it would be advantageous to me if you made haste with your next visit to my residence. There is business to discuss._  
> 
> _Your obedient servant,_
> 
> _—A. Hamilton_

 

It is enough that will make Burr interested enough to seek him out. It’s been a few days since he’s had his company, and Alexander finds himself surprisingly annoyed about it. It isn’t like Burr has much else to do — New York isn’t quite ready to embrace him with open arms, yet. However, Burr has seemed to be genuinely busy when he’s staved away with that excuse; even though the office of vice president may be as insignificant as Adams once said of it, Jefferson has found reason to keep Burr occupied. _Jefferson is meddling,_ Burr had told him, his moral quandary evident as his eyes glanced around the room as though Jefferson was there hiding behind a bookshelf, _and I am left powerless to do anything of it._  

Of course, when Alexander asked him to elaborate, Burr had shook his head and said, _I’ve said too much already._

It might’ve been a hook to make himself intriguing to Alexander, but nevertheless. It’s a good place to start, and Burr owes him one, anyway.

There is no reason that Burr shouldn’t return on the same day; it’s only half-past ten, and he is most likely home; Alexander knows that Burr doesn’t like to drag himself out of the house any sooner than he has to, the lazy fool.

“Take this down to Richmond Hill and deliver it to Burr,” Alexander tells Al, handing over the sealed letter. “Have him read it in your presence, and see to it that he does as I request.”

“Okay, Pops,” Al says, looking unsure that he can  _make_ Burr do anything. He tucks the letter in the pocket of his jacket and gives a crooked smile and adds, “If anything, I can have a chance to see Theo.”

“Sure,” Alexander says as he turns his attentions back to his desk, but then snaps his head back up to look at Al and _oh no._  

His son, his _namesake_ , is blushing over a _Burr._  

“Don’t tell me that you fancy her, Al,” Alexander says, but then Al doesn’t answer, just shrugs and gives a sheepish smile. Alexander takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk, finding a way to extend the pause. “My heart can’t take it. A Hamilton. Smitten with a Burr.”

Caught, a deeper flush spreads across Al’s face. “What if I am?” he asks, defensive and his voice rising, and Alexander realizes that he’s probably been preparing for this conversation for a while. “I cannot help it that Theodosia Burr has caught my attentions.” 

By this time, Angie has perked up from her reading nook in the corner and is listening — eavesdropping, honestly — to their conversation, her book closed in her lap because what’s unfolding in front of her is far more entertaining. Alexander looks between his children — Angie with her mild amusement, and Al with his fidgety nervousness — and just shrugs and asks, “Why her?”

Al scoffs and rolls his eyes and Alexander is about to scold him for his attitude, but then Al sighs and a dreamy smile lights up his face and Alexander cannot, because it’s too damn cute that his son is enamored by another. He remembers those days. Al ignores the exaggerated gagging sound that Angie makes, and tells Alexander _why._

“ _Everything_ ,” Al says, his voice wistful. “She is a fine lady of well up-bringing, she’s clever, opinionated, _beautiful,_ and self-sufficient too. Did you know that she managed her home while her father was away?”

“ _About_ her father,” Alexander cuts in, raising a hand to stop Al’s declaration of adoration. “Don’t you see how it could be problematic that you’ll be courting the daughter of the man who had a public disagreement with me?”

 _Public disagreement_ has become code for _the duel_ _where your father almost died_ when Alexander and Eliza speak of it in front of the children. The older ones aren’t fooled, nor placated.

“But isn’t Mr. Burr your friend, father?” Angie asks as she strides over and leans against the table. She says it simple, in that satirical voice that means to force people to admit she’s right, which unfortunately for Alexander, she has learned from him. “You spend time with him, so can we not be friends with his daughter? That is the example you’ve set.” 

“It doesn’t matter what Aaron Burr is to me, friend or not,” Alexander says tersely. It’s a topic he isn’t going to discuss, least of all with his children — _do as I say, not as I do_ comes to mind. This is something that he should discuss with Eliza, although he has the suspicion that she will be like-minded on the matter. “It wouldn’t be ideal to be seen associating yourself with a Burr.”

Alexander pretends he doesn’t hear Angie mutter, “Hypocrite,” under her breath.

“Pops,” Al says, regaining control of the conversation, “although Theo’s family name does not inspire the social standing that one would desire to marry into—”

“ _Marry?”_ Angie hisses, incredulous, and then looks to Alexander like _please talk some sense into him!_ Alexander agrees with her; however, even though Theo Burr is a wonderful young lady, this is all coming out of nowhere and is quite absurd, and he silences her protests with a wave of his hand. Al looks properly embarrassed, but continues.

“…however, I believe that Theo will be independent of anything that could be said of her family. She is…exemplary.”

Al ends, breathless, awaiting what Alexander has to say. Alexander studies him — his face is kind, like his mother’s, and he has the kindness in his soul to match hers; a crooked nose like his own, as well as his compelling brown eyes; a mess of dark springy curls, hair not too unlike his older (dead) brother. He is a young man, newly graduated from the same college that he attended; Alexander still regrets that he was too ill to see him graduate a few weeks ago.

He wonders when Al grew up without him noticing. Probably when the second son became the eldest by circumstance, but can never fully be thought of as the oldest.

“Take the letter,” Alexander says finally, “and if you’re so interested, you can ask Theo’s father for her hand while you’re there. Because Aaron Burr is _such_ an understanding man, especially when it comes to his only daughter.”

Al makes a sound akin to a strangled whine, dropping his shoulders. It is well known that Burr being _aggressively overprotective_ of Theo is an understatement. “Fine,” Al says, defeated, and his hopes for romance are dashed for now. 

Alexander feels a somewhat guilty for being responsible for his son’s unhappiness, but then again, it’s one less thing he has to be concerned with.

“Don’t worry, little brother,” Angie says, coming along side Al and flicking back a stray curl that’s fallen in his face. “We’re just trying to save you the embarrassment, Al. You’re a few years younger than Theo, and besides, she wouldn’t be impressed with the likes of you.” She sneers at Al and her eyes go downward as she takes in the sight of her brother. “For starters, your shoes are scuffed.”

“Angie, _please_ stop—”

“Therefore, it’s imperative that I accompany you to deliver father’s letter,” Angie concludes.

Both of those named Alexander stop and turn to Angie, stunned. Alexander Hamilton the senior reaches out to her, asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Angie says, like it’s no big deal. Like she hasn’t left the house for any reason other than church for months. Like there aren’t days where she talks about someone who isn’t there.

Alexander and Al share a knowing glance before they turn to Angie again. She seems unbeknownst to their bewilderment, and is busy smoothing out the wrinkles of her lavender-colored dress, and then putting her wavy dark-brown hair over her shoulders. Once pleased with her appearance, she smiles and looks up at them. “It’ll be a nice walk. The dreadful heat of the summer has lessened, and besides, I have to return the book that Theo loaned to me.” She then pivots to Al, and her sweet smile turns into a smirk. “And I want to see you make a damn fool out of yourself, if there’s the opportunity.”

“Language,” scolds Alexander, before attending to Al, who had let out the most miserable sounding sigh. “Please don’t anger Burr by hitting on his daughter. Simple conversation is acceptable, but be mannerly. I swore on my deathbed that I would never duel again. We’d have to settle our conflicts by seeing who could knit the nicest blanket.” 

Both of his children roll their eyes at him, evidently unimpressed with his humor. He’s losing his touch. At least the younger ones still find him amusing.

“Well, if you’re accompanying me, let’s go,” Al says, and now that his sorrow that his romance is over before it could even begin, he seems to be glad that Angie is accompanying him. Al offers his arm, a show that he’s forgiven her teasing. Angie grabs the book quickly before linking arms with Al, and then with a nod to Alexander, they leave.

A smile comes to Alexander’s face. He’s happy that Angie has a friend in a Burr, even if he isn’t sure he does himself. He figures that after today, he’ll know.

 

* * *

 

Angie and Al return two hours later, accompanied by the Burrs. Their arrival is announced by the flurry of noise downstairs, the younger children competing for their siblings’ attention, and Eliza greeting the guests, _Hello, Aaron, Theo, nice to see you again._ He strains his ears to listen, but then there’s the sound of someone rushing up the stairs and running down the hallway, and then Angie blows into the library.

“He chickened out,” Angie says, smug, and carrying two new books under her arm, presumably that she’s borrowed from Theo. Alexander opens his mouth to ask what she means, but then Al follows her inside and judging by the way he’s moping, he didn’t have his intended conversation with Theo. Alexander hopes that Angie didn’t embarrass her brother, at least not too badly.

All of their attentions are drawn to the doorway when they hear footfalls, looking up to see Burr and Theo standing there. Together, father and daughter, they make quite an entrance. Burr comes off as more confident when he’s with Theo, which Alexander guesses it’s because he’s proud — Alexander feels similar when he’s with his children. Theo carries the same assured and poised attitude, but it doesn’t come off as cold as it does with Burr, and is in fact quite charming. She has a complexion more like her mother, from what Alexander remembers of Theodosia Sr., but most everything else of Theo is of Burr: strong slim build, row of straight white teeth, nice cheekbones, rich brown eyes. She wears her curly black hair short, a severe cut that keeps it off her neck, but Alexander supposes that Burr’s would look the same if he had ever let his grow out in the thirty years that he’s known him.

“Mr. Hamilton,” Theo says, smiling broadly at him. Her smiles always feel genuine. “I hope you do not mind that I accompanied my father, but your children insisted that I visit as well.”

“You are always welcome here,” Alexander says. He means it. “Your father is more tolerable when you are near.” He means that, too.

Burr lets out a scoff, but Theo turns to him and says, “Well, he’s not wrong, Papa.”

Alexander catches Burr’s eye, and then Burr nods, acknowledging. Alexander tries to keep his face neutral when he returns it.

 

* * *

 

The Burrs stay for lunch. It is an uneventful affair, as it has occurred many times as of late. When the plates are cleared, Eliza and the children go out back to the garden, leaving Burr alone with Alexander. They sit idle, facing each other in the most comfortable armchairs in the library.

“In your letter, you mentioned business to discuss,” Burr says. “Or was that another ploy to drag me over here for your amusement.”

Alexander checks the time, hums. Only a few minutes more to be sure that the others are occupied. “No, there is business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Alexander says, and then clicks his tongue as he decides how best to go about this. “Did you ever smuggle anyone across enemy lines during the war?”

“No, I did not,” Burr says. He sounds slightly ashamed, like he disappointed the entire Continental Army for not having the chance to do so.

“How about intelligence?” Alexander asks. “A coded letter, perhaps?”

“Yes, many times.” Burr narrows his eyes. “Why do you—?”

“That’ll do,” Alexander says, and clutches the armrest to ease himself into a standing position. Now is his chance. “Let’s go, time is of the essence.”

Burr holds his hands out. “Time for _what_?”

“Business,” Alexander says, short, as he takes one step forward, then another as he holds onto the back of Burr’s chair, stretches. There are a lot more steps to go. “I might need your help.” Another step. He forgoes his coat, and his cane. Both are trivial.

“Imprecision is not becoming on you,” Burr says, standing and walking Alexander’s slow pace alongside him out of the library and into the hall. “It just makes you more annoying.”

“You’ll find out in due time,” Alexander says. Burr huffs, but says nothing, and a few limped steps later they are at the destination — the top of the stairs.

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Burr says, steadfast, turning to Alexander and gesturing at the stairs. “I will not be the one who goes against your family’s wishes and escort you down stairs like a lady going to her first ball.”

Good. At least he understands the purpose why Alexander has brought him there. Alexander cannot be restrained for any longer, not for one more second.

“Please,” Alexander begs. “I’m strong enough now, I know it. You’d only be here to assure that I don’t lose my balance, and to make sure I succeed.” He smiles in such a way that he hopes comes off as complementary. “You said that you have had missions of safely transporting items that were secretive. This will be no different.”

“You are not a letter that I can fold up and put in my pocket!” 

Alexander sighs, exasperated, and slumps against the wall.

“Please,” he repeats. “I know my family has good intentions, but they aim to protect me in a way I don’t need.” Alexander runs a hand through his hair, tugs at the roots, trying to quell the anxiety that’s churning in his stomach. Burr must realize that he is desperate if he’s seeking out his help. His voice cracks, says, “I’m not fragile.”

Burr blinks. “No, you’re not.” He takes a breath, and looks at Alexander with pity ( _no no no, he hates that_ ), starts, “But—”

“I’ll be fine,” Alexander says. He’s said that to others, but they’ve all rejected his wishes. The difference is that he has leverage over Burr.

“You said that you’d help me do _anything.”_ Alexander places his hand on the banister. “Or was that a deceit, as well?”

“No!”

“Then assist me.”  Alexander pauses, and shrugs. “You know me — when I make my up mind to do something, I will follow through. I’m going down these stairs with, or without you. So what will it be?”

They climb down three steps before Alexander has to give in and cling to Burr’s side for support. It hurts more than he expected, a sharp jab in his side, and it feels as though his leg will go out from under him. His pride hurts more than his body. Almost. On step number two, when there’s a particularly painful moment, Burr reaches for him and says, “Let me help,” but Alexander shoves him away clutches his hurt side, right where Burr shot him and snaps, “You’ve _helped_ enough.” Burr backs off, his face going unreadable. But then on step number three, the pain is so bad that he gasps and automatically grabs Burr’s arm. Burr is gentlemanly enough to say nothing of it, and lets him hold on as they go down step number four, then five, and he holds onto the rail with his free hand to support them as they take the sixth step together.

They have to pause on step seven because Alexander starts coughing. Burr says, patient, “We can go back up. This was a good start. I won’t say anything, and we can try again tomorrow.”

Alexander shakes his head. “We’ve come this far.” Burr looks like he wants to disagree, but he respects Alexander’s wishes, and they continue to the eighth step when Alexander’s cough calms. Maybe Burr wants to see if it’s possible, too.

On step nine, Alexander thinks that Burr might slip and they are going to fall down the rest of the stairs together and Alexander makes a pathetic sound, but Burr regains his balance, wraps an arm tight around Alexander and says, “I’ve got you.” 

Alexander can hardly stand the irony of it. 

Ten, and Alexander grits his teeth to force himself to keep going. Eleven, and he leans more into Burr’s side. Twelve, and he feels Burr breathing hot against his face. Thirteen, and he wonders if he’ll ever make it. But then there’s number fourteen, and that’s it, and he wonders why he ever doubted himself.

They part when they’re at the landing. Alexander plops down in the nearest chair, pushes sweaty hair out of his face and catches his breath. Burr stands next to him and is out of breath as well. Alexander thinks of saying that Burr isn’t as young and spritely as he used to be, but then he remembers Burr hasn’t said that of him, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to prove the point by forcing the insult through labored breaths.

Alexander takes the time to examine his surroundings. He realizes that he hasn’t seen this part of the house since before he left that early July morning — when he returned home, he was too out of it to know what was happening. Nothing seems to have changed. It’s comforting.

“So,” Burr says, breaking Alexander out of his thoughts. “We made it. Now what?”

Alexander didn’t have to think, because it had been his ultimate goal. “Outside.”

Burr is quiet for a moment but then laughs, a short _ha_. “You are truly ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well.” Alexander tries to get up but stalls, and wordlessly holds out his hand for Burr to help him up. Burr glares at him, but he takes Alexander’s hand and hefts him up to a standing position. Alexander proceeds, walking through his house with Burr following closely beside him, until they’re at the front door. He opens it and then—

—there’s outside.

He’s stumbling forward and Burr is telling him to _wait_ and there’s more steps, why did he put so many goddamned steps when building his home, but Burr is quick to get to his side. Burr mumbles encouragement, _almost there, you can do it,_ as he grips Alexander’s arm and bears the most of his weight. He doesn’t ask questions, he just helps Alexander do what he needs to do.

When Alexander’s shoes touch the dirt, he looks up at the sky and squints in the sun. It’s a beautiful day, white fluffy clouds in the blue sky. There’s a breeze that blows his hair. He smiles.

“Are you okay?”

Alexander turns to Burr, the one who helped him obtain this freedom, his unconventional savior, and says, “I’m the best I’ve been in long time.” Not just recent times, but in _years_ — before everything went wrong. He supposes it’s true, when it’s said that you can learn to enjoy the simple things.

They walk slowly up the front path, Alexander allowing himself to lean against Burr after a few steps. He hurts everywhere, muscles aching and side screaming in pain, sweat running down his back, and he’s uncomfortable slouched against Burr, but it’s all worth it — the inner angst that had taken residence in his heart has lessened, soothed. He believes that he’ll be okay.

He’s at such peace, he almost forgets the other reason why he asked Burr over.

“Jefferson wants to get rid of your high Federalists,” Burr says when Alexander inquires to the state of their union. Alexander isn’t surprised — he’s heard the same from trusted sources.

There’s a moment where Burr must be waiting for Alexander to ask a follow-up question, but Alexander is mulling everything over in his mind, and focusing on putting once foot in front of the other and how he’s sweating on Burr’s coat. Burr takes the chance to speak first, asks, “But you didn’t really ask me here for political matters, correct?”

Alexander shrugs. “Maybe a different kind of political matter,” he says, over the rasp in his chest. “One you haven’t mentioned since you proposed it to me.”

Burr comes to an abrupt halt, and Alexander stops with him. Alexander can feel how Burr’s body has gone tense, like a bowstring. He takes a step away from Burr so that he can face him.

“Were you serious?” Alexander asks. “With your offer to help me become President?”

Burr bites his lip, looks off into the distance like he can’t meet Alexander looking at him expectantly. After a long moment, Burr returns his gaze to Alexander and asks, “Do you want it to be serious?”

Alexander has been asking himself the same question ever since Burr brought it into his life. He doesn’t _need_ it to be, he doesn’t need that title for his legacy. He does not need to advance his station. What he has is enough. But does he _want_ it is the question. Perhaps he doesn’t want it to be, so then he doesn’t have reason to desire it, because the more he entertains the notion…

“I don’t know,” Alexander admits.

Burr frowns. “What happened to you?”

It’s the most harsh that Burr has spoken to him in ages. Alexander matches his tone, “Speak what you mean, Burr.”

“You say you don’t know if you would want the presidency, if given the chance,” Burr says, like he doesn’t believe Alexander. “The Alexander I once knew would have—”

“Do you want to know what happened to me? I was publically ruined because of my mistakes, I destroyed my family’s life, my son died—” Alexander’s voice cracks, he won’t cry, he won’t, he says, “—and just when things started to seem like they’re getting better, I got _shot,_ betrayed by someone I had thought of as a friend!” he says, his voice risen to a shout, “And I almost died. Again! That’s what happened to me!”

Their peace could only last so long, Alexander thinks. He hates to have ruined that too, but he couldn’t let it go. His chest heaves, breathing hard as he comes down from his upset, and Burr just stares, accepting. And Alexander, he waits for what comes next. He’ll be ready, he’s always ready for anything.

“Are we friends now?” Burr asks after a long silence between them.

Alexander sighs. _I’ve always considered you a friend,_ Alexander remembers telling Burr. Years later, a stolen Senate seat doesn’t seem as big of a deal. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Then that makes two of us.”

 _At least we aren’t enemies,_ Alexander’s mind supplies. Then he laughs. “I suppose that we must stay on friendly terms, because our children are charmed with each other. We can’t disappoint them.” 

Burr nods. “Of course, you’re right,” he says, and they agree on their peace terms.

Unspoken, they begin to walk back to the house.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander says. He seems to be saying _I’m sorry_ a lot these days.

Burr lets out an indifferent _meh._ “We have to start somewhere,” he says. He looks sideways at Alexander, adds, “And if this is the start of a Hamilton presidency, then—”

Alexander never gets to hear the _then_ , because a panicked yelling interrupts him.

He and Burr look up towards the house at the commotion — on the front porch is Eliza, surrounded by Al, Angie, and Theo. Eliza has her hands on her hips, and yells out his name again.

Alexander cringes, says, “Shit.”

Next to him, Burr replies, “Yeah, basically.”

The two men walk the short distance back, using Alexander’s limp to take their time. Alexander is sure that Burr is more humiliated than he is about being caught in their scheme, based off how Burr keeps his head down and doesn’t say anything as they make their way up the steps. Alexander hardly keeps a straight face, because turns out that going up steps hurts _worse_ — Burr keeps quiet when Alexander digs his fingers into Burr’s arm to keep from yelping in pain.

Alexander knows that he is in trouble by the way Eliza is looking at him. Worry fades from her face seeing that he’s okay, and is replaced with the steely anger that is her own brand. 

“We didn’t know where you were,” Eliza begins, “you could have been hurt, or—”

“I was with Burr. No big deal,” Alexander says. “We just went for a walk.” He looks to Burr for support, but Burr just shrugs. It’s a good thing that he never got into any bar fights when he was younger while Burr was with him. Burr would be the guy to hightail and leave after the first punch is thrown. “It’s not like he kidnapped me or anything.”

The kids snicker, but Eliza isn’t as amused. “Alexander, I was worried about you.”

Alexander diverts her concern. “But — I did it!” he exclaims, and puts his hand out like _ta-da!_ He ignores the fact that he probably looks like a mess.

Eliza smiles, like _good job, honey,_ and says, “I’m so happy you’re better, Alexander. But you should have let me known. I thought that we were supposed to be doing this together?”

There’s a wave of guilt when he realizes that she’s right.

“It’s Burr’s fault,” Alexander says, and beside him Burr lets out an affronted scoff and asks, “And _how_ is this my fault?”

“He encouraged me,” Alexander continues, looking at Eliza, tries to appeal to her. “He let me, enabling me in my scheme to go behind your back and push my limits. If it hadn’t been for Burr, I would still be holed away upstairs as I’ve been for weeks.”

The latter part of his statement is true. He doesn’t mention emotionally conning Burr into it, though.

Burr doesn’t object, he just takes it with a mild apathetic expression and mutters, “Turncoat,” so only Alexander can hear. Theo goes to her father, pats his arm and suggests that they leave, and then thanks them for their hospitality. Eliza promises Burr that she has no ill-will towards him — then glares at Alexander — because she knows who the true mastermind of the _great escape_ was.

As they leave, Burr looks over his shoulder and catches Alexander’s gaze. Alexander feels an odd apprehension coiled tight in his chest, and he finds that he must do something to relieve it.

 _Thanks,_ he mouths to Burr.

Burr looks surprised, and tilts his head to the side, as if considering what to say. Alexander wonders what Burr thinks. Burr reveals only enough of himself to keep Alexander guessing.

 _You’re welcome_ , Burr mouths back, and then faces away from Alexander, as though he doesn’t want to see how Alexander reacts.

Alexander stands on the porch in a daze — struck with everything that has happened in the afternoon — until Eliza tugs on his arm, pulling him back inside the house. Alexander follows, limping and taking her arm; while she is not as strong as Burr, she is much more pleasant to lean on. She doesn’t scold him for not using his cane, but really, she is all the support he needs.

The children go back upstairs, leaving Alexander and Eliza alone in the drawing room. Eliza guides Alexander to the sofa, and sits next to him after Alexander has managed to seat himself.

“That poor man,” Eliza says. “You tossing him to the wolves like that.”

Alexander laughs. “You mean that poor man who shot me?”

“Aaron Burr needs all the sympathies he can get,” Eliza says. Alexander is prone to agree with her, but most of Burr’s bad luck is brought upon himself.

Eliza tucks a strand of Alexander’s hair behind his ear. “But I don’t want to talk about him,” she says. “I’m sorry if I’ve held you back—”

“You haven’t.”

“But still,” Eliza continues, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. It’s me who should be sorry. And I am,” Alexander says. “I am a lousy patient, especially when my egotism is injured.”

There’s a hint of a smile tugging at Eliza’s mouth. She mustn’t be too upset, Alexander figures, so he goes in for a kiss — gentle and chaste, feather-light on her lips. Eliza gasps, her mouth parting against his and Alexander slides his tongue in against hers as he cups her face with his hand. Alexander squeezes his eyes shut, enjoying the heat of Eliza pressed against him, and how she holds onto his arm like he might disappear if she lets go.

It’s more than he’s done since he’s been well, and he’s breathless and he needs to stop before he gets too wound up. When he pulls away, Eliza leans in to chase his lips but Alexander instead takes Eliza’s hand and kisses it. She blushes, as she always does when he does this — it’s something he’s done since he was a penniless solider courting her.

“I miss you,” Alexander says, nuzzling against Eliza’s neck. He’s comfortable and content with her, and just now he’s feeling the exhaustion of today catching up on him. Ever observant of his needs, Eliza moves so he can arrange himself so he’s lying down on his back, his legs outstretched and his head in her lap.

She runs her hand over his forehead. He wants to close his eyes, just for a moment, but he can’t stop looking at how lovely she looks. 

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Eliza says.

“I know,” Alexander responds. He blinks, his eyelids getting heavier. “But, if I’m not too forward, I would like to share your bed again.” 

“ _Oh,_ Mr. Hamilton.” 

“Not like _that_ , necessarily,” Alexander says, finding himself blushing a little, because that had not been his true meaning of the request, but… _that_ wouldn’t be unwelcome either, when he feels up ( _ha_ , his tired mind supplying a laugh) to it. “I miss lying with you, having you next to me, your sweet pillow-talk, how you fit perfectly in my arms, falling asleep with your heartbeat against my chest, waking in the morning with you next to me.” If anything, that will be what heals him most. The warm, intimate company of his beloved.

“Okay,” Eliza says, and Alexander supposes that he must have closed his eyes, because he has to struggle to open them to see Eliza smiling down at him when she says, “I would like that too.”

“Good,” Alexander murmurs, his eyes falling shut again. He’ll just lie there for a moment, he decides as he shifts to get more comfortable, his face against the soft silk of Eliza’s dress. There had been something important he wanted to tell her, something he wanted her opinion on...oh, how would she like to be the First Lady.

Eliza puts a hand on Alexander’s forehead, smooths where his forehead is wrinkled with thought. “Don’t worry about anything,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”

Alexander falls asleep, assured that she is correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [Adams saying the VP is insignificant](https://www.whitehouse.gov/1600/presidents/johnadams)  
> \- Alex Jr [did graduate from Columbia](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Hamilton_Jr.) only weeks after Hamilton died  
> \- ? that's all the notes I have for this chapter.


	7. Aaron IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come in,” he hears Hamilton say. Aaron opens the door, and he isn’t quite sure what to make of the sight — Hamilton sitting in a wooden tub with water up to his chest, his hair done up into a high ponytail, focused on scrubbing the place where his neck and left shoulder meet.

It’s said that time heals all wounds, including those that are unseen and remain a private, individual affliction. That somehow, when time and perspective separates from the heartache, it doesn’t hurt as badly as it did upon the onset, and it becomes _less,_ like a scar that’s healed over once the bleeding has long since stopped.

Aaron supposes that there’s some truth to it. He’s well acquainted with the pains that bear no marks upon his body and that only he can feel the suffering of — the loss of his parents and of his Theodosia, all gone from him too soon. Sometimes, he thinks that death must want him to be lonely. But he’s lonely, not alone. While these losses weigh on his soul, they don’t burden him. It’s all part of a culmination that is _him_. He survives, and not only that, but he comes out stronger through every tragedy — like how scarred skin is tougher, but leaves a reminder so it’s never forgotten.

It is no different with his grief with Hamilton. Aaron wouldn’t go as far to call it heartache, but it’s an _ache_ nonetheless, one centralized somewhere to the left in his chest. But the last of summer turns to autumn, and with it comes a tranquility between Hamilton and him — it was either that, or keep picking at the wound until it festers.

Aaron calls on Hamilton as often as he can without feeling like an imposition. However, Hamilton never turns him away, even on the days when Hamilton is busy at his desk, writing something fast as though the words will disappear if he doesn’t get them to paper quickly enough. This behavior doesn’t deter Aaron away, instead he sits quietly in the room and provides quiet company, and reads a book. Aaron doesn’t get much accomplished, as he often gets distracted by the scratch of Hamilton’s quill on the parchment or the frustrated huffy sounds Hamilton lets out every so often, or by the way Hamilton runs his hand through his hair only for his hair to fall back in his face. It’s all very distracting, and Aaron often has to read the same line a few times because he loses his place when Hamilton drags his attention away.

However…it’s not so bad when Hamilton looks up with his bright wide brown eyes and ask Aaron’s opinion of the wording of something, and then go back and scribble something based upon what Aaron had said. It’s a confirmation that Hamilton remembers that Aaron is _there_ with him. Aaron almost allows himself to reminisce of old times, before there was a divide between them, and they were young lawyers fresh from the war.

It’s something Aaron can’t let go; his time with Hamilton is invaluable, especially when he thinks of how he was almost deprived of it, this _after_. With Hamilton, there’s quiet moments together in the library, stopping every so often to share with the other what they’ve read. There’s knowing every single one of the Hamilton children, and the knowing their individual personalities. There’s having tea with Eliza when Hamilton isn’t feeling well for company, and they talk about topics that aren’t about Hamilton. There are walks with Hamilton that get longer every time, and there’s Hamilton’s windswept hair in the breeze that makes Aaron’s hands itch to tuck behind his ears. There’s Hamilton’s smile that starts to come easier, less obligatory. There are conversations spoken in _what ifs_ — _what if you do become President? what if I didn’t fire in the air? what if I withdrew my challenge? what if we both died in the war? what if I never met you?_

(The last one, Hamilton tells him, _impossible, I still would have found you._ )

Aaron begins to feel a particular attachment to Alexander, and with it, Aaron feels greedy to desire Hamilton’s attentions so. Like he doesn’t _deserve_ it.

There’s only so much that a father can tell his daughter without having her think him as ridiculous, and there’s only so many times a daughter can listen to her father brood before becoming exasperated and threatening to expose his confession herself to the parties in question.

So, on one drunken night, he confesses it all to Van Ness, like it’s a deep dark secret. A secret that he’s… _fond_ of Hamilton. Aaron has a hard time articulating it to Van Ness, and he can’t look at Van Ness when he admits it.

“Duh,” Van Ness says, with a lot less concern than Aaron had expected. “You always have, in some way.”

Aaron scoffs at his lack of response. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Van Ness shrugs, takes a long drink from his glass, as though he’s taking the time to come up with a suitable answer. Aaron thinks that could take all night. But finally, Van Ness sets the glass down, and then steeples his fingers in front of him.

“This isn’t news to me. You’ve always been partial to Hamilton,” Van Ness says. Aaron opens his mouth to respond, but Van Ness continues, “And don’t try to deny it. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been, like, obsessed with him. And the moment right before the duel, you kept saying things like, _he’ll change his mind, he’ll see it isn’t worth it, it’ll be fine, Alexander won’t do this, I know him, our friendship is too good and pure so we will row back the river together singing._ ”

“I didn't say that last part.” Aaron glares at him, objecting. “I am not _obsessed_.”

“Oh, my mistake.” Van Ness still seems unconvinced. “I mean, the reason why it burned you so much when he talked shit about you is because you cared about his opinion.”

Aaron scowls, but he knows that Van Ness is right. Many people had said many negative and unflattering things about him, but he could ignore that — that’s the nature of politics. But from Hamilton, it was different, it wasn’t _just_ politics, he _knew_ him. Aaron never would have thought that Hamilton could have said such unspeakable things about him, and Aaron never would have believed that he would say just as horrible things back and—

—it didn’t matter, anymore.

“I’ve known Hamilton for a long time,” Aaron says. “Of course I care.” He must, because his behavior is unexplainable otherwise. Defensive, he asks, “Is there a problem with that?”

“Only if you make it a problem,” Van Ness says. He slouches back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So, Hamilton is your new best friend?”

There’s a teasing tone to it, but the liquor causes it to irk Aaron more. “No, damn! We’re just…friendly, I guess. Trying to figure things out.” He isn’t trying to make this anything that it isn’t.

“Oh, I see. You don’t want to put a label on it.” 

“Perhaps I should, as it seems that I should find a new best friend, since mine is being incredibly annoying,” Aaron dryly says. Van Ness puts a hand to his chest, like, _gee, thanks!_ but Aaron just grunts in reply.

Van Ness laughs, good-natured, and leans forward to clap Aaron on the shoulder. “But seriously,” Van Ness says as he pours himself another serving of amber liquor into his glass, “you just rambled for half an hour about how much you enjoy Hamilton’s company, even if it makes you have a moral quandary about it. But. You see him more often than me. That seems like best friend qualifications.” He raises the glass to his mouth, and furrows his brows together. “I can’t believe this. Maybe I should have you shoot me, and then we can be best buds again.”

Aaron glares at him, and doesn’t even dignify him with a response. He knows that if he did, Van Ness would drag it out the teasing for another half hour.

A few seconds later, Van Ness breaks into a laugh. “I’m kidding! But honestly Burr, I think you’re being overdramatic, as always.”

Aaron scoffs, and takes another sip of his drink. There’s no way he’ll admit to Van Ness that Theo said the same exact thing.

 

* * *

 

Word gets around. Jefferson notices.

“I’ve heard you’ve been spending a lot of time with Hamilton,” Jefferson says, his words somehow sounding like an accusation. “I thought that was rather odd, as you haven’t mentioned your _rendezvous_ with Alexander to me.”

Aaron’s pulse quickens. There’s the sensation of being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do — his pulse pounds in his ears, anxiety creeps up his neck, his palms going sweaty, his mouth dry. Time slows, and all he can think about is how Hamilton has become his _secret._

“Our daughters are friends,” Aaron says when Jefferson’s unspoken demand for an explanation is too suffocating. It seems like it takes him ages to come up with a response, the uneasy silence dragging on, but in actuality it probably was only a few seconds. It isn’t an untruth — Theo has become close friends with the eldest Hamilton daughter, of which Aaron approves. 

It’s just not the _whole_ truth.

Jefferson raises his brows. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Aaron says, and then adds, “And if it weren’t, it doesn’t concern you.” He’s pretty much admitting to…whatever it is he has with Hamilton. Aaron doesn’t mind — it’s not like Jefferson doesn’t have enough reasons to not trust him already.

Jefferson stares at him, as though surprised by this small show of rebellion, but then he laughs, _hard,_ leaning forward and slapping his leg _._ Aaron doesn’t join in.

“Damn,” Jefferson says once he’s calmed himself. “I’m gonna miss you.”

 _You’re going to miss using me at your expense_ , Aaron thinks. He doesn’t say anything, because he there’s only a few more months that he must endure being connected to Jefferson. The Presidential election is only a few weeks away in November and Aaron has no part in it — Jefferson will be reelected and some other sorry sap will be Vice President, and then Aaron will be a lame duck until inauguration a few months later. It can’t come soon enough, and he can hardly feign disappointment when Jefferson tells him that he’s leaving for the Capitol for the winter months.

“How disappointing,” Aaron says, untempered glee filtering through his voice. “I was hoping we could spend the holiday together.”

Jefferson grimaces, as though the very idea of having to share Christmas dinner with Aaron is revolting to him. Aaron feels similarly. He imagines that Jefferson would probably get drunk on expensive French wine and talk about his weird weather documentation, or his gardening experiments.

After a long sigh, Jefferson says, “You may get your wish after all, Burr. Because you’re coming back to the Capitol, too.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and with his other hand he gestures out to Aaron. “You’ve gotta preside over the Chase impeachment trial.”

Aaron swallows. He had been expecting it. Justice Chase’s impending trial regarding his impeachment charges is to be brought before the Senate, and as Vice President, it’s Aaron’s job to oversee it. As President of the Senate, he has little power, and the most significant portion of his job is keeping the bickering and snacking on the Senate floor at bay. He isn’t looking forward to presiding over the trial — it’s a power play by Jefferson abusing his overreaching influence, and it’s a showdown of the Democratic-Republicans versus the Federalists where Aaron is going to be cast as the villain by both sides, even though he doesn’t want to be involved in their little war at all. 

However, as luck would have it, Aaron will be placed in the optimal spot to watch it unfold — an impartial supervisor of what could be the start of a change. It might be useful.

And knowing that Jefferson doesn’t want him there makes his role more palpable. Vindication. One last hurrah as the thorn in Jefferson’s side.

Jefferson cannot overtly pressure the trial to be run in his favor, but it’s known that Jefferson wants to see Chase gone from the bench. He encouraged the House of Representatives to impeach the judge, planting the idea in their heads by whispering things like, _ought the seditious and official attack on the principles of our Constitution go unpunished?_ and like sheep they conformed, doing Jefferson’s dirty work for him. It had been easy, with the Democratic-Republicans far outnumbering the Federalists. 

Jefferson is weeding out the Federalists, choking the remaining life out of the party. He doesn’t want to lose his credibility, and he feared that judges serving for life — especially when belonging to an opposing party — would make them too powerful, and throw his executive power in upheaval. Jefferson had had it out for Chase ever since 1800 when Chase encouraged Congress to vote against Jefferson when the vote for President was in the House of Representatives, and Jefferson now is taking his chance to strike.

Perhaps Chase isn’t entirely guiltless. He is very strong in his beliefs and doesn’t mince his words when speaking them, he is known to harass Democratic-Republican lawyers, and openly flaunts his political opinion when judges are thought that they should be impartial. However, Jefferson has taken it upon himself to carry out his sly vendetta through the means of others, he’s brutal, moving in shadows and concealing himself in just enough protocol to protect himself. He’ll do anything to make sure he keeps his power, and Aaron worries to see what lengths he’ll go to so he can maintain it.

“You have to be there when the committee meets to prepare for the proceedings,” Jefferson explains, like Aaron is too stupid to know that. “I need you to be there to take care of it. Makes sure it goes as it should go.”

 _Need._ Ha.

“You can’t get rid of someone just because you don’t like them,” Aaron says.

“Isn’t that what you tried to do?” Jefferson fires back, and Aaron can hear the _zing!_ in the comment. He looks to Aaron, makes sure Aaron knows what he implies, makes sure that Aaron once again has that guilt reaped across his mind.

Aaron doesn’t like that Jefferson knows that it bothers him. He says, “It’s not the same.” The explanation is meaningless, though. Aaron doesn’t imagine that anyone else could understand the relations between and Hamilton and him.

“Yeah, you and your buddy Hammy.” Jefferson smirks. “Y’all deserve each other.” 

 _Deserve._ There’s that word again.

It’s something Aaron is rather comfortable with, knowing that it’s not that if he deserves Hamilton — it’s that reciprocal. Hamilton has his misfortunes, too.

 

* * *

 

Aaron goes to Hamilton on the same day of his meeting with Jefferson. Because that’s what Aaron does now — he takes his problems to the person who used to be his problem.

He doesn’t even invite Theo for the pretense of their children spending time together. Before leaving, Aaron freshens up and changes clothes, deciding to wear his new slate blue suit that’s made with thicker material for the cooler months. He stands in front of the mirror, head and face freshly shaven, struggling with tying his cravat in a new fashionable way he’s seen, but he can’t make his fingers work into the intricate knot so he gives up and ties it the way he usually does. He thinks about asking Hamilton to show him how to tie the knot — it’s where he first saw it worn that way, fancy silk against his throat.

He frowns at himself in the mirror, wondering when he started caring so much about his appearance.

The Grange is uncharacteristically quiet when Aaron arrives at around half-past four. It’s a little later than when he usually comes over but his meeting with Jefferson that morning had delayed him. Typically, he would postpone his visit until the following day if he were this late, but something told him that he had to see Hamilton today. But his instincts were wrong. The housemaid who greets Aaron at the door tells him that Eliza, Angelica, and the majority of the children went into town, and while Hamilton is at home, he is occupied.

“I’ll call on him tomorrow, then.” Aaron ignores the flutter of disappointment in his chest, and turns to leave but he’s told to wait, and the maid disappears and he’s forced to awkwardly loiter in the foyer because it would be rude to leave after he’s caused a ruckus with his presence. 

A few minutes later, the maid comes back and tells him, “Mister Hamilton will see you,” and then gives Aaron directions to a room in the house he’s never entered before. The door is closed, and Aaron knocks three times, says, “It’s me,” and then adds, “It’s me, Burr.”

“Come in,” he hears Hamilton say. Aaron opens the door, and he isn’t quite sure what to make of the sight — Hamilton sitting in a wooden tub with water up to his chest, his hair done up into a high ponytail, focused on scrubbing the place where his neck and left shoulder meet.

“Um,” Aaron says, stalled in the doorway. “I could have waited until you were done.” He takes note of the pink tinge of Hamilton’s tan skin where he’s rubbed it. “I didn’t realize you were bathing.”

“Nonsense. I can multitask,” Hamilton says, rinsing off the scrubbed area with water, and then he looks over to Aaron. “Close the door, you’re letting the heat out.”

Aaron grinds his teeth but shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t understand why Hamilton wouldn’t value privacy, and it kind of makes Aaron uncomfortable that Hamilton is so uncaring of it, so Aaron sets his gaze to wandering around the room. It seems to be a room set aside for bathing; small sized to keep in the heat, a fireplace on one wall — currently lit with a bucket over it, a chair near the tub with a linen thrown over the back, one window. On the floor, Aaron sees a pile of what he assumes are Hamilton’s clothes.

Hamilton’s voice disturbs his observation of the room, “Oh, come on, Burr. It’s nothing you’ve not seen before.”

Aaron looks over to Hamilton to see Hamilton smiling at him, seemingly delighted with testing his boundaries once again. But Hamilton isn’t wrong. During the war it was commonplace for groups of men to strip and wade into the stream together to wash off when the sweat and dirt and blood and other things they didn’t want to think about became too much on their skin. But those instances were always quick because they had been too worried that they’d get ambushed with their asses hanging out — much different than keeping an associate company while he bathes in the comfort of his own home. Aaron is more modest than most men, but he knows that it isn’t too abnormal to see another man bare (except when it is _abnormal_ , and this is not). It’s natural between close friends, and Aaron has to consider that Hamilton is that comfortable with him now. He decides that it’s okay, and it’s only awkward if he makes it so.

(He thinks of an occasion many, many years ago that is probably why Hamilton teases him like this: they had been sharing a room during a trial that took them to New Jersey for a few days, and in his exhausted state Hamilton had stripped down to nothing without regard to Aaron in the room with him. “ _Alexander, please,”_ Aaron had said and averting his eyes, and then Hamilton rolled his eyes and went, _“Good grief, it’s not like you’re some shy maiden,”_ but he hurried to pull on his nightshirt for Aaron’s benefit, anyway.) 

“Sit,” Hamilton says, gesturing to the chair next to him. He flicks water onto the floor as he does so. He seems unconcerned.

Refusing might embarrass Hamilton, so Aaron adapts the same unconcerned attitude and takes the seat next the tub, sitting forward slightly so he doesn’t lean against the clean linen. From this angle, he can’t see anything other than Hamilton’s chest and shoulders. Which is fine, until Hamilton sits up from his reclined position, revealing his torso, and Aaron can’t look away from the fresh scar on Hamilton’s side that’s peeking out of the water.

Aaron has a vivid flashback of Hamilton crumbling to the ground after he’d been struck, red running from his body. He blinks to clear the vision.

The sight of the scar takes Aaron by surprise. It’s the first time he’s seen the injury — it looks like other gunshot wounds he’s seen, round with ragged edges, angry red in the middle and pinker as it extends out. It appears to have healed well, thanks to the excellent medical care that Hamilton had received. In time, it’ll fade and become just another part of him. Forever.

With Hamilton’s improved health, Aaron had not thought of the physical remnant that would remain. Aaron wonders if Hamilton looks upon it and relives his pain, relives his hate for him.

Just as Aaron is reliving his guilt.

Hamilton clears his throat, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Aaron looks up to meet his gaze and he realizes that Hamilton had noticed he had been fixated on his injury. It makes Aaron feel worse, but Hamilton’s expression doesn’t offer any sympathy. They look at each other for a few moments, and then Hamilton crosses his arm across his middle, covering the scar. It does little good — Aaron still knows that it’s there.

He’s lost pondering that thought, and has to ask Hamilton to repeat himself when he speaks. 

“I asked,” Hamilton says, a dose of irritation in his voice which Aaron guesses is dislike from him not paying his undivided attention to him, “What’s on your mind?”

Right. Aaron had come where with a reason. His tête-à-tête with Jefferson seems far off and his problems distant, and not just that morning.

“I met with Jefferson,” Aaron begins, and Hamilton makes a face like _gross._ Aaron holds back on a chuckle because if anything, they share a disdain for the man in question.

“It gets worse,” Aaron continues, and Hamilton listens as he washes his right leg that he’s sticking out of the water. Aaron gets momentarily distracted at his realization how big Hamilton’s feet are. He says, “He left for the Capitol—” 

“That’s a bad thing? Fuck, let’s throw a party.”

“—and I soon must follow,” Aaron concludes. There’s a flicker of confusion in Hamilton’s face, and Aaron elaborates, “I have to oversee the trial for Justice Chase.”

“Oh.” Hamilton drops his leg back into the water, splashing some droplets onto Aaron. The bath water is lukewarm.

“Yeah.” Aaron stares at the wet specks on his breeches. Darker blue dots. He speaks to them, eyes downcast, “Trust me, it’s only because it’s by necessity. Jefferson doesn’t want me in the Capitol. I think he hardly noticed when I’ve spent months at a time here in New York.”

“Well, I say _good riddance_ ,” Hamilton says, seemingly more interested in rinsing out the cloth he’s been using to scrub at his skin with. “Who wants to be wanted by the towering oaf, anyway?”

Aaron doesn’t mention that at one point he did, stupidly, because he thought it was worth it.

“It’s not looking good, Hamilton,” Aaron says. He rubs at the back of his neck, tries to think of a condensed version of events to tell. “Chase is being trialed for his political convictions, convictions that Jefferson is trying to eliminate from the government.” He pauses. “Convictions which you share.”

“Jefferson opposes the Federalists. The sky is blue.” Hamilton gestures out with his hand, disturbing the water. “Water is wet.”

“Besides the obvious,” Aaron says, “You realize that this can lead to further events like this, right? Jefferson already had Pickering removed from office, but he was a drunken fool. If he’s successful at eliminating Chase, that sets a precedent. Next, Chief Justice John Marshall could follow, and after that Jefferson can do whatever he wants, because his people would control all of government as the Federalists dwindle to nothing.” What’s happening isn’t _right_ , his anger incited, and his hands are shaking, he doesn’t understand how Hamilton says that he doesn’t believe in anything. Aaron says, “And if that follows, there’d be no place for—” 

Aaron stops himself before he says it. _No place for you._  

Not soon enough, because Hamilton’s mouth hitches into a smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Hamilton shouldn’t be as intimidating as he is, naked and sitting in dirty, sudsy water. “Worried about there not being a place for you either, Burr? Do you think you can claw your way back riding my coattails? Am I just another opportunity you see?” he asks, each of the questions sharp and accusing. “Something to get you on the up-and-up again?”

“No!”

“Then what’s your plan, Burr?” Hamilton’s face twists into an awful fury Aaron hasn’t seen in a while. “How can I trust you to campaign for me when I can’t even trust you to not drown me in my bathwater?” 

“Alexander, please don’t do this.”

“ _Don’t do this?”_ Hamilton doesn’t stop, however — the torrent doesn’t relent, his voice rising. “Why would you be the one to do the impossible? I’m helpless. Think of what they’ll say — a nearly-dead man for a nearly-dead party.” He pauses as if to consider it, laughs to himself. “You can’t make something out of nothing. I don’t need your help.”

Aaron thinks of them walking down the stairs together, Hamilton a strong presence against him, and how it had felt like Hamilton had been supporting him too. 

“We’d need each other. It would be something we can do together,” Aaron says. It has been something he’s been so certain of, but now he feels like an idiot.

Hamilton scoffs. “And at the end, the great Aaron Burr who is my savior, and I’ll forever be indebted to you. You’d be freed of your crimes against me. Your conscience, quieted. Since you feel as though I took a Presidency from you, you feel as though if you give me one, everything will be in balance.”

Something within Aaron snaps — he doesn’t have to listen to this. He doesn’t _owe_ Hamilton anything, no matter what Hamilton says. It’s not true. Aaron doesn’t need to be absolved.

He doesn’t. 

He stands before he can think of why Hamilton’s comments cut so close. Hamilton looks up at him, shocked, as though he didn’t expect him to leave.

Aaron says, “I know when I’m unwelcome, I’ll see myself out.”

He gets to the door before Hamilton stops him. Perhaps he has been walking slow enough to give Hamilton the chance to change his mind.   Had hoped that Hamilton would change his mind.

“Shit, Burr. Don’t go.” Aaron hears Hamilton moving in the water, and then Hamilton says, “Help me with something?”

Aaron looks over his shoulder. “We just had a row because I offered my help, and now you’re willingly asking for it?”

Hamilton smiles, more friendly this time. “This is a request that requires much less effort.” He points across the room to the fireplace. “Can you get that water for me?”

Aaron looks over to where the pail of water is over the flames, and then back to Hamilton and gives him his best _you’ve got to be kidding me_. Hamilton asks again, “Please,” and Aaron notices then that Hamilton is shivering. The water must have cooled. Aaron rolls his eyes and fetches it. 

“Thank you,” Hamilton says, and Aaron carefully pours in the steaming water into the bath. Hamilton lets out a long, content sigh and sinks further into the water, it brimming to his chin. “Fuck, this is nice.”

Aaron sets the now empty pail next to the tub. He stares at a place above Hamilton’s head on the wall. “Wonderful. Is that all you need?”

Hamilton makes a soft humming noise, but then turns to look at Aaron. “Would you wash my hair?”

Aaron laughs, but then realizes that Hamilton is serious. Washing Hamilton’s hair would definitely go over his self-imposed limit of the conducts of modesty. “Uh, why?” He tries for offbeat humor to ease the tension that’s crawling up his spine. “I’m not in the practice of washing hair, as I have little.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hamilton says. “I would do it myself, but it hurts to reach like I need.” He demonstrates, lifting his arms and putting his hands over his head but when he tries reach back he winces. 

Aaron looks away from his pained face, instead focuses on the dark hair under his armpits and the water running down his arms in trails.

“Never mind,” Hamilton says, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I’ll—” 

“Sure, I’ll do it,” Aaron says, and he goes to take off his coat. Hamilton watches as Aaron slips it off and puts it on the chair and starts to roll up his sleeves.

“Really?” Hamilton asks, surprised, and for a moment Aaron thinks that perhaps Hamilton had been expecting him to refuse and it was just a test. 

It’s too late to back out, though — Aaron has his sleeves to his elbows, and he drags the chair so it’s behind Hamilton, sits down. “What do I do?”

“Uh.” Hamilton pulls the ribbon holding his hair, shakes his head as his thick, dark locks fall to his shoulders. It sticks to Hamilton’s skin where it’s damp. He gestures to the floor, next to the tub. “There’s some soap down there. Get all of my hair wet, and then rub some of the soap in it. Rinse it out, then that’s it.”

Simple enough. Aaron cups his hands and collects water from the bath and pours it over Hamilton’s head, ignoring Hamilton’s complaints when it runs in his face. He repeats the motion until Hamilton’s hair is dripping wet, and then he reaches down to grab the soap that Hamilton had indicated to. Aaron rubs the bar between his hands and it suds up easy; he brings his hands to his face to smell it. It’s a nice scent — mild, clean, and he recognizes it immediately as Hamilton.

He puts the soap down where he got it, and turns to Hamilton with soapy hands, figuring out the best approach to this. He’s never cleaned anyone’s hair besides his own — Theodosia had always taken care of it for Theo, and after her mother died Theo could take care of it on her own with help from a maid.

“The water is getting cold,” Hamilton mutters. “Come on, or I’ll splash you.”

“I’ll dunk you under, since you thought I might drown you in here anyway,” Aaron says, but there’s no heat behind the threat. Hamilton half-suppresses a snicker and says, “I knew it,” joking, and then settles in, leaning back so he’s resting against the tub. Aaron lets out a sigh, and reaches out tentatively for Hamilton’s head.

Hamilton’s hair is admittedly beautiful, it’s substantial and wavy in Aaron’s hands even when it’s damp. The majority of it is still black as ink as it’s always been, but there are flecks of gray throughout, and when Aaron pulls it to the side he sees how the hair around his temples is entirely gray. Hamilton must realize Aaron is inspecting it because he wiggles his head away and makes an annoyed grumbly noise until Aaron continues.

Hamilton has so much hair Aaron doesn’t really know what to do with it. He distributes the soap through his hair as best he can, working from the scalp down to the ends, letting the subtle curl of the hair curve freely in his palm.

Aaron has been intrigued by Hamilton’s hair, wondered what it’d be like to touch. It’s always shiny and well-kept, and looks silky smooth as it hangs down around his shoulders, or in his face when he’s bent over and working. Many times Aaron has been tempted to reach out and tuck a stray strand behind Hamilton’s ear, but it never seems to bother Hamilton, so Aaron lets it be.

It turns out that his hair is as nice as he thought it would be. It’s obvious that Hamilton takes care of it, and Aaron takes his time carding through it, his fingers careful at his scalp. Hamilton shifts, sighs at the touch. And then, on accident maybe, Aaron massages at Hamilton’s scalp. Maybe because it’s what feels natural to do to clean his hair, maybe to draw out another one of those soft sounds from Hamilton.

Hamilton stills for a moment and Aaron feels like he’s gone too far and he’s about to withdraw and run out of the room with wet, guilty hands, but then Hamilton lets out a long exhale and Aaron wouldn’t go anywhere else. He rubs his fingers against Hamilton’s hairline, puts pressure at the base of his neck with his thumbs, and Aaron can visibly see Hamilton’s shoulders relax. Until then, Aaron hadn’t known how tense Hamilton had been. Hamilton is always so tense, like he’s on edge and waiting for something.

“Feels good,” Hamilton murmurs. Aaron isn’t completely sure if he heard him right, and leans in closer. He can hear Hamilton’s deep, steady breaths, and he turns his head to see that Hamilton has his eyes closed and his mouth slightly parted. He’s never seen Hamilton so content, and he’s committing to have this as a memory of him resting instead of the fitful way Hamilton slept while he was injured. At first this had seemed like a peculiar task, but he’s finding that he’s enjoying it as much as Hamilton apparently is — the other man’s parted lips are pulling into a smile, and he’s muttering something that Aaron’s can’t understand.

“What?” Aaron asks.

Hamilton snaps open his eyes, blinking madly as though he’s forgotten that Aaron had been there, and he looks surprised that Aaron had been looking at him. Aaron startles, sharply inhaling and his fingers tangling a little tighter in Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton groans, his hands going to his lap and Aaron trips over his apologies and Hamilton goes _it’s fine, it’s fine_ and both of them seem to agree to not mention anything else about the incident it, for the sake of the other. 

Hamilton clears his throat, asks, “Why’d you stop?”

Aaron didn’t realize that he had stopped running his hands through Hamilton’s hair until Hamilton had said so.

Aaron starts again, one hand taking water to rinse out the soap while the other shields to keep it from splashing onto the floor, or on himself.

“So what do you think about Jefferson and his brigade against the Federalists?” Aaron asks, trying to make conversation.

Hamilton hums, more unconcerned than Aaron had expected him to be about the matter. He figures that either Hamilton isn’t worried, or that he has his own plans brewing. Or maybe at the moment, Hamilton is most concerned about his bath.

So, Aaron doesn’t prod any further, and does as he was asked.

Aaron washes out the rest of the soap. The motions between them are almost mechanical now, Hamilton tilting his chin toward his chest as Aaron rubs at the hair underneath, and Hamilton turns his head to each side for Aaron to rinse and Aaron is sure to cover Hamilton’s ear with a hand so water won't get inside it. Aaron even runs his hand over Hamilton’s shoulders to get rid of some stubborn suds there. It’s…nice, therapeutic in a way to be handing Hamilton like this. It’s like he’s finally able to touch a wild horse that finally trusts him. 

“I don’t understand,” Aaron says, quiet, not wanting to disturb the calm. “Sometimes you’re prickly, but then you’re fine.” He takes another handful of water and slowly lets it trickle on top of Hamilton’s head; Hamilton’s hair is clear of all the soap but Aaron doesn’t want to stop just yet, not when he has Hamilton like this. “I never know where I stand with you.”

“Does that bother you?” Hamilton asks. He looks over his shoulder so he can face Aaron; he’s slightly flushed, pink high in his cheeks, probably from the heat of the water on his face.

“No,” Aaron says, but then shakes his head and instead goes with, “Yes.”

“It bothers me too. Because I don’t know either,” Hamilton responds, and he says it like it upsets him that he’s conflicted over it, that he _doesn’t know_ something. “I like spending time with you, you’re in the same realm of intelligence as me and you’re charming — _shut up,_ or I’ll retract that — but then…”

“But then?” Aaron asks, probing, when Hamilton’s voice trails off.

Hamilton swallows. “And then I remember.” He lays a hand on his side, fingers brushing over the scar. “I remember how it was between us, and I wonder if this is a mistake.”

Aaron’s chest clenches. So Hamilton has finally caught on. “I thought we said that was behind us.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton says, agreeing, but his mouth remains a stern line. “But shouldn’t we keep it present in our minds, so we know where we’ve came from? Isn’t our history important?”

Something inside Aaron rebels against a brick wall.

“I can’t take back what happened.” That is a fact — no matter how many times Aaron has wished it otherwise. “Don’t you think if I had another chance, that I would have made more effort to resolve our disagreement without bloodshed?”

“I know,” Hamilton says, and Aaron recognizes that tone, it’s got an upswing, telltale of when he’s about to propose an idea. “But if we had not had our meeting at Weehawken, we would not be speaking now, as our relations before were frigid at best. We would still be snidely ignoring each other on the street and at social gatherings. The duel between us started a chain of events that lead us here, and now that we’re on the other side, I…” Hamilton hesitates, but Aaron figures it can’t be too bad because Hamilton is grinning and then Hamilton says, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Aaron isn’t sure what to say. _Me too,_ seems trite, but Aaron doesn’t want to talk about how Hamilton almost dying worked to his benefit. 

Instead, Aaron says, “How could I disagree when I have the privilege of washing your hair?” and with one last splash of water he says, “There, all done,” because it is, and their conversation is done, too.

Aaron stands, his hands dripping on the floor until Hamilton nods over to the linen, indicating that he can use it. Aaron dries off his hands and wrists, drapes the linen back on the chair, and starts to put right his clothes. He pulls down his sleeves, fixing the cuffs, finding that they got a little damp. 

Hamilton runs a hand over his head. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Aaron puts on his coat, fastens it. He then realizes something, asks, “Do you need me to help you out of the bath?” and is already approaching Hamilton to help.

“No!” Hamilton says, sudden, making Aaron take a step back. Hamilton waves a hand, coughs, and sinks down into the tub until all that’s seen of him is his head and his bent knees that are poking out of the water. He looks rather demure, wet hair clinging to his head and his face flushed.

Hamilton starts again, awkward, “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going to stay here a little while longer. And Eliza should be back soon, and she’ll help me out. I’m…just fine, you can go now.”

Aaron shrugs. Whatever. Let Hamilton freeze his ass off in quickly chilling water.

Hamilton says, “But thanks, though. I’ll return the favor one day,” and he eyes Aaron’s closely shorn hair.

 _Ridiculous,_ Aaron thinks, and leaves, but considers growing his hair out enough just to hold Hamilton to it.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Hamilton is dressed and waiting in the foyer for Aaron to show up. 

“You’re late,” Hamilton says as he passes him, hobbling and using his cane. Aaron swears he catches a whiff of the soap from his hair.

“How can I be late when I didn’t say when I was coming?” Aaron asks, but it goes unheard and Hamilton shouts from the porch for him to come help him down the front stairs.

It’s a crisp autumn day, the trees on Hamilton’s property already warm colors of oranges and red, and it’s cool enough that he doesn’t sweat at all. They don’t say much as they walk, Hamilton focused on leading Aaron to the back of the house. 

They stop when they near a pond that Aaron hasn’t seen before. Aaron admires it for a moment, until he realizes that Hamilton is looking at him for the first time since they’ve been outside. 

“It’s a beautiful view,” Aaron says, and Hamilton nods and turns to look out on the pond too.

“I’d hate to leave it. If I were elected,” Hamilton says, muttered. 

The fact that Hamilton is even considering it as a plausibility is a win to Aaron. “It wouldn’t be forever. Four years, maybe eight.”

“That’s a long time.” 

 _But hardly any at all,_ Aaron thinks.

Hamilton keeps his sights in the distance.

“Have you told Eliza yet?” Aaron asks.

The question makes Hamilton turn to Aaron. His brow is raised, inquisitive, counters with, “Have you told Theo?”

Aaron lets out a sigh as a reply. He’s been on the verge of telling Theo every night for weeks now, but he loses the nerve every time. He can’t figure out how to explain this barely formed idea, and if he did he knows that she would tell him that it’s a bad idea. But there is some comfort that they both haven’t told their respective confidants — it’s something private for them.

“That’s what I thought,” Hamilton says. He then laughs, says, “What do I say? _Hey honey, remember the man who was my political enemy? Well now we’re going to team up to take down the standing government._ ”

It sounds insane when Hamilton says it like that, and Aaron laughs with him. “But you make us sound like we’re plotting a coup d'état,” he says, and Hamilton laughs even more, open-mouthed and his eyes doing that thing where they crinkle on the side.

Aaron has a moment of realization that the list of people who laugh like this with him is short: Theodosia did up until she died; Theo, always; Van Ness, sometimes; and Hamilton. 

Hamilton composes himself. “Whatever it is we’re going to do, even if we do this thing or not, there’s something we have to do first.”

 _What,_ Aaron is about to say, but then his eyes widen when Hamilton pulls out a pistol from his coat, and then another with his other hand. Aaron recognizes them immediately — they’re Hamilton’s paired dueling pistols.

Hamilton wordlessly hands one to Aaron. Aaron takes it, in a daze — all the joy from a few moments ago evaporates, making Aaron stagger. It feels too familiar, the weight of it, memory of what it was like with his finger on the trigger, the loud _bang,_ its betrayal firing when he wished more than anything to make it stop, how it slipped out of his hand when he tried to get to Hamilton. 

His hands are shaking. 

“What do you want me to do?” Aaron has this thought that maybe Hamilton wants a second round, that this is the only way to settle their differences — this time they can both fire in the air, or maybe he had misjudged Hamilton again and Hamilton wants to shoot him and leave him for dead. 

Hamilton examines the gun in his own hands. “These have been the source of a lot of problems,” he says, and meets eyes with Aaron. “Your duel with my brother-in-law, which thank God neither of you were harmed.”

Aaron bites his lip. His disagreement with John Church was mild, in comparison. Bullets had whizzed past both of them, and Church apologized for accusing him of accepting bribes for political matters.

“And then,” Hamilton says, and his voice breaks, “My sweet Philip.”

Aaron nods. Hamilton seems stuck, so Aaron speaks. “And then there’s us.”

“And then us,” Hamilton repeats, words hollow. “You know, I wonder why my son died and I didn’t. I’m the one who—”

“You cannot spend your time debating the matters of life and death.”

He looks up from the pistol in his hands and to Aaron. “I want this to be over.”

Aaron does, too. “What do you suggest?”

It happens before Aaron can process it. Hamilton’s sorrow turns into a dazzling burst of resolution — he turns towards the water, pulls his arm back and throws the pistol into the pond. He grunts a little with the effort but the pistol arcs and lands with a _plop_ in the water _,_ making a splash and sending ripples from the central point. Aaron watches as it sinks to the bottom, gone.

“Your turn,” Hamilton says, and Aaron kind of laughs like _okay then_ because he feels rather silly but Hamilton is eager and tugging on his sleeve, so Aaron takes one last look at the pistol in his hand and tosses it into the pond and then it’s gone, too. 

“There,” Hamilton says, “We’ve buried the hatchet.”

 _As if it’s that easy,_ Aaron thinks, as if a simple act of symbolism could make things better, but as he watches the water come to a peaceful stillness he feels the same peace within him. Content. It’s probably one of Hamilton’s better ideas.

He turns to Hamilton to tell him so, and Hamilton is already looking at him — Hamilton can hardly contain his smile and it makes Aaron’s chest tighten. Hamilton is _impossible,_ Hamilton is the incendiary of a spark that inspires an agitation in his heart that he is getting used to carrying with him.

“You said that I don’t believe in anything,” Aaron says, the words coming to him, unbidden, “but you’re wrong. I believe in you.”

He always has.

“Oh?” Hamilton says, and Aaron wishes that Hamilton would stop looking at him like _that_ , really. He has to look away, for the heat creeping up his neck might overtake him completely. He hears Hamilton laugh and go, “ _Oh, Aaron, you fuddy-duddy,”_ and the rare occurrence of Hamilton using his given name gives him the courage to say the rest of his admission—

“And I believe in me,” Aaron says, “Especially when I’m working with you. We’re a good team.”

Hamilton smiles, remembering. “We were.”

“We can be again.”

“Perhaps.”

“So, please,” Aaron begs, “Give me—give _us_ this chance.”

Aaron waits. He waits, and then—

Hamilton holds out his hand. Aaron takes it in his without a second thought, and they shake hands.

An agreement. 

“Well, mister Burr, sir,” Hamilton says, “What comes next?” 

Aaron smiles. Having Hamilton on his side, he feels like anything is possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #awkward bath times
> 
> I didn't make all this up  
> – [about the justice chase impeachment](http://www.fjc.gov/history/home.nsf/page/tu_sedbio_chase.html)  
> \- [Jefferson being an idiot about it](https://mises.org/library/jefferson-president-his-judicial-blunders)  
> \- [Burr did duel with John Church](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-26-02-0001-0201). Also, the pistols belonged to Church.  
> \- back then of course people didn't really wash their hair that much, if at all, but if they did they used soap. So.
> 
> Feel free to send me asks/messages on tumblr about whatever!


	8. Alexander IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander writes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get more M-rated here for sexual content.

As expected, Burr is whisked away to the Capitol a few days after they discussed it. Alexander hasn’t seen Burr since they threw the pistols into the water. He doesn’t even have a proper goodbye — Van Ness delivers a letter from Burr, it saying, _As you are a clever man, I expect for you to surmise that I left to travel to our Nation’s Capitol, with a return date of unknown…_ and no answer is to be found explaining why he had to leave so suddenly. Burr is flighty, so taking off in the dead of night is exactly something that he’d do. When Alexander asks Van Ness if he knows anything about what Burr is doing or his state of mind, Van Ness just shrugs and mutters nonsense until Alexander sends him on his way.

Alexander feels Burr’s absence more prominently every day. For him to be so involved, passing the time with him almost daily, and then…nothing. It leaves a void in his time. Alexander writes to him with the beginnings of an engaging conversation expecting to continue their cordial relationship through letters, and five days later Alexander receives a reply from Burr that measures only a few inches on the page. Puny, compared to Alexander’s page and a half. Burr cites that he’s busy, but Alexander has the suspicion that Burr is ignoring him.

If Alexander didn’t know better, he would think that Burr _knew._

But Alexander assures himself that Burr doesn’t know. It’s impossible for Burr to have noticed _that_ when Burr was helping him with his hair in the bath. Burr would have been more awkward than he normally is, and Alexander made sure that he put his arms across his lap to hide his…predicament.

It’s no big deal, Alexander tells himself. It’s totally normal to get a boner while someone washes your hair. Natural, it happens! Even if it happens with your friend-turned-enemy-turned-friend. Alexander rationalizes it with himself — he had been relaxed in the warm water, Burr’s fingers threading through his hair which is something that has always _done_ it for him, getting the knot massaged out of his neck and…it just happened, he can’t control his dick. And honestly, for a moment Alexander had forgot that Burr had even been there and he had to think away the arousal curling in his stomach and quickly conceal his boner, or they would be in a situation more awkward than their gun-wielding interview.

Alexander is easily excitable these days. A good strong breeze in his direction could probably make him hard and straining in his breeches. After he recovered from his affliction, it’s like he’s a young man again, in that respect anyway — when he’s fit enough to engage in such activities, it’s like he can’t _stop._ He’s developed a new vigor along with his new chance at life, enjoying the indulgent and sensual pleasures as much as he’s able.

Eliza is appreciative of his newfound desires. They’ve always been amorous with each other — they’ve had eight kids, for fuck’s sake — but this is something else. _It’s different,_ Eliza says one night when they’ve both been sated and she’s kissing the taste of herself off Alexander’s lips, _I can’t explain it but you’re irresistible, I don’t want to leave this bed._ Alexander replies, _then let’s not_ , and he moves his hand to touch her lightly, making her gasp against his mouth, and Alexander drinks it in, smiling.

Responsibilities keep them from lying in bed with each other all day, but they make good on the time they have. Since they’ve been in the same bed again, Alexander often wakes up with his arms wrapped around Eliza, his cock half hard and a want for more. He wakes her up with kisses to her neck, and slowly grinds against her thigh until she mumbles his name that’s around a blissed sigh, and she turns over to kiss him before climbing in his lap and says, “Hi there,” moving his nightshirt so she can wrap her hand around his cock, and he moans but stops her only to pull her shift over her head and _god, she’s so beautiful_ he thinks as he runs his hand over her chest and praises fall out of his mouth and he’s so very thankful to wake up to her in the morning, he’s never been more grateful for living than in these moments.

He’s overwhelmed. Eliza calls him _horny._

He can handle the limp in his step as long as his dick isn’t limp, and thankfully that part of him works just fine. Eliza has to ride him mostly, he quickly gets too exhausted if he’s on top, but neither of them mind ( _lazy,_ Eliza will tease him, but Alexander will grunt and give a thrust up and they both giggle). Or she sits in his lap while he’s in a chair, or her on her knees with her flirty eyes looking up at him, or her laid out on bed while he lies on his stomach with his face buried between her thighs. It’s all good.

His…urges don’t really lessen in the weeks that follow. Alexander indulges himself on his own when Eliza is busy or isn’t in the mood for a quick romp in the middle of the day, and he locks himself in his office and reclines in his chair and jerks off — it’s a cure for boredom, as well as relief from pain. He takes it slow, stroking himself to hardness, rolls back his foreskin to run his thumb over the head just to tease himself until he can’t stand it any longer and he comes in his hand, and he has to wait until his legs are steady enough to walk on. Eliza always knows when he does this, she notices that extra pep in his step and she gives him bedroom eyes that he understands that _later_ he’ll get some, he has to distract himself because he feels his dick twitch, making an effort to get hard again even though he spent less than an hour before.

So, with his passionate, lustful state, it’s understandable that a pair of strong hands touching his neck and scalp in just the right way would arouse him ( _unknowingly_ , Alexander thinks, it’s not like Burr had been trying to arouse him on purpose). It’s just a sensory thing. Strong hands, a warm presence, comfort. It’s fine. 

But it makes his face flush when he thinks about how as soon as he had been alone, he put his hands around himself, trying very hard to not think about how it would feel to have those strong hands on his dick.

 

* * *

 

Burr doesn’t come back to New York, but Alexander stays in contact with him through the exchange of letters. Alexander averages three for every one of Burr’s, but that doesn’t deter Alexander. He writes down what’s happening in his mind, and once it’s on the paper he feels better. It’s some kind of clarity, and the distance between them makes it easier to speak.

 

> _Dear Burr,_
> 
> _How go the preparations for the trial? Is Jefferson being an insufferable, mouth-breathing cretin who hangs over your shoulder, or is he too occupied with the election that begins next week? In case you were wondering, I am not endorsing him for this election. Not that it makes a difference — this is one of those times when even I must consign defeat…_  

Although Alexander expects it, it doesn’t make him any less infuriated when Jefferson wins the 1804 election. After the month-long process, the votes are in and there’s no tie this time. The opponents didn’t even have a chance. Jefferson is favorable to the public and the government — he’s the incumbent, he’s increased trade, and the Louisiana purchase is his greatest hit. The Federalists were a lost cause for this election too, their representation is poor in Congress, them wildly outnumbered and all of the Democratic-Republicans are so far up Jefferson’s ass they could never consider voting any differently or outside the party.

Nobody asks for Alexander’s comment.

Alexander tosses all the newspapers announcing the election into the fire, and then pens a letter to Burr—

 

> _Please make his life hell for me,_

—and writes into the night all the frustrations brewing inside him.

Six days later, Alexander receives the response along with a wrapped package: 

 

> _Do not worry, Alexander. I am making the President miserable enough for the both of us. Among other small instances of rebellion, I have taken to purposely miswording his messages, and I’ve acquired a couple bottles of his most expensive wine, one of which I’ve enclosed in the package to you. I hope you and Mrs. Hamilton enjoy it, as I believe it could be considered treason to steal from the President. If you have any other ideas (you always have ideas, I know) how to antagonize him, please send them along. As I am sure that you are going to continue to bombard me with letters, you might as well include some tips, because you are skilled at making others vexed._

Alexander immediately begins the list of suggestions, inspired, and he and Eliza drink the pilfered wine that evening. It is delicious, probably more so knowing that Burr took it and send it to him with him on his mind.

Theo leaves the week before Christmas to go spend the holiday with her father. At least she has the decency to visit and let them know before she leaves; Al and Angie both brood, as well as young Lizzie. Eliza says she hates seeing her go, and Alexander admits that he’ll miss having her visit their home. 

Alexander tells Theo, “It’s good you’re going. Look after your father.”

Theo smiles. “I always do.”

Alexander nods, and makes sure that her coat is wrapped up tight to fight the December snow, like he would for his own children. “Tell him not to forget us.” 

“He won’t,” Theo says, and it looks like she’s about to add something else but she shakes her head and then says, “I’ll see you soon, Mister Hamilton. I will send my father your good wishes.”

And Alexander has nothing but good wishes for Burr. On Christmas, after the children have open their gifts and Eliza and Angelica prepare for dinner, he writes: 

 

> _Burr,_
> 
> _The chill here is bitter, and it won’t stop snowing. My Eliza does not like for me to go outside because she thinks I’ll lose my footing on some hidden, malicious patch of ice and I’ll bust my ass. If you were here, we could sneak me out of the house again! I suppose that is my way of saying that you should be back here. We have more things to discuss, and I have to admit that I am still cross that you left without bidding me farewell, so expect me to tell you in person about how aggravated I am. Grant me this. However, I will find it in my heart to forgive you for this transgression — it could have been worse. But I have the theory that possibly Jefferson had you abducted and is keeping you captive there in the Capitol. I wouldn’t know any different, as you haven’t spoken much about your well being. I know that you are prone to melancholy, and you are surrounded by people who do not care for you — I apologize if that is harsh, but it is true._
> 
> _I am concerned about you…_

 

* * *

 

The New Year comes without fanfare. It’s kind of odd to see 1805 when he didn’t think he’d make it barely halfway through 1804, but here he is. Alive.

But that ever-present feeling of time running out does not disappear.

Alexander wouldn’t know how to cope without it. He believes that he’d have nothing to encourage him to keep going.

 

* * *

 

Alexander hears less from Burr as weeks gone turn into months. There’s the worry that maybe Burr has become bored with him, but then Alexander abandons that thought because he doesn’t think anyone has ever thought of him as _boring._ Burr withdrawing from Alexander cannot be because Burr suddenly finds him too intolerable, because Burr has had thirty years to escape if he had wanted to, and by now Burr would stick it out because he won’t admit defeat. Alexander thinks that perhaps Burr no longer feels an obligation to him, but after a fitful night of sleep Alexander disregards this too — three letters ago, Burr had asked, _have you told Eliza of our plan?_ which tells him that Burr is still committed to it, and him ( _I believe in you_ , Burr had said). Using deductive reasoning, Alexander wonders if Burr had got a glimpse of his boner, but he doubts it, because Burr had not acted this reclusive the one time Burr ripped his breeches during court, and that was by far a more humiliating experience (Alexander had to lend Burr his coat to put it around his waist to hide the tear in the fabric until they got back to their offices).

The most logical reason suggests that Burr is isolating himself from him because he’s having second thoughts about his promise to Alexander, and he regrets it. Alexander doesn’t blame him. He’s a risk, and Burr is not one for risks. Burr must’ve finally come to his senses and is detaching himself from Alexander before their ties become too strong — they’ve gone from nemeses to friends, and it happened without them really realizing it. _I believe in you_ , Burr had said, anguished, like the confession was compelled from him, and maybe he doesn’t want to believe in Alexander, and that scares him that he does believe. 

 

> _If you’re going to retreat, then go ahead. This is your chance to be free of me._
> 
>  

Alexander feels stupid writing it, like a lady offended that a gentleman has led her on without the intention of proposal. If things hadn’t been odd between them before, then he’s sure that it is now, but then he gets a response:

 

> _Alexander,_
> 
> _Do not take my lack of response as disinterest or impartiality. In case you have forgotten, I have a job to do here. The trial starts next month, and I am a very busy man. I do not have the time to write you an itinerary of my thoughts and actions every day. May I suggest that you take up a hobby? Perhaps writing fiction? As you apparently have too much time on your hands and have begun to use your active imagination to think of things that do not exist._
> 
> _Your obedient servant,  
>  _ _A. Burr_
> 
> _P.S. Happy birthday. I am glad that you have made it to another year older. May this be a good year for you, my friend._

 

It’s delivered couple days late, but it’s dated on his birthday. The sentiment makes Alexander smile. With the simple gesture of Burr remembering his birthday, all doubts of Burr’s amity cease.

 

* * *

 

> _Do you need me to use my connections? I can write under a pseudonym, I can propose an opinion of the trial, I can back your discernments…_

Alexander writes this for two reasons. One, because he feels the need to help Burr, because Burr is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Two, because Alexander now has some understanding of being left out when wanting to be involved.

He receives no reply.

 

* * *

 

In February, Alexander starts going to his law office a few days a week. It’s good to get out of the house and have a fuller routine, and it’s fun to see people around town gape in amazement when they see that he’s well (even if they stare too long at his uneven step and his cane when he gets out of the carriage), but his main motivation to be out and about is because he needs to earn money. Philip Schuyler had gave them a sum of money to help with their financial burdens, but they can’t depend on that forever, and Alexander needs to return to his normal life.

Luckily, his name is still drawing business in, more than expected — he has to turn some away — but he has to sort things out that haven’t been touched since July. Al enthusiastically volunteers to assist him, and Alexander agrees, because he likes to encourage his son’s interest in law.

Even though if the majority of the work they’re doing is sorting through papers and dusty books.

“Not as riveting as you thought, huh?” Alexander asks Al a few hours into the work. For the most part, Al has been quiet while Alexander rambles about the cases and writes notes on them before filing them away. That’s unlike Al — he’s usually brimming with curiosity, and impressed easily. Now, he seems distracted, and hardly interested.

Alexander frowns. He’s a little disappointed actually — it’s the first time since his injury that it would be just the two of them. “Hey,” Alexander says, “Is your old man of a father that dull?”

Al runs his finger over the gold lettering of a law theory book, and shakes his head. “No,” Al mutters, and looks up at Alexander with his wide brown eyes. “I’ve just been thinking about something.”

Alexander prays that Al isn’t about to go on again about much he’s pining for Theo Burr, and then asks, “What’s on your mind?”

Al bites his lip, and he looks so troubled that Alexander starts to worry. Al begins, “So I was in town yesterday, and I heard some talk.”

“Okay,” Alexander slowly says, leaning back into his seat. “What about?” 

“Well, I know how you always say not to believe a rumor unless you’ve started it, so I, uh, investigated and I found out that it was true, and it made me happy and I wanted to tell you but then I realized it _shouldn’t_ make me happy but I can’t help it—” 

“Are you going to tell me or not?” Alexander asks. Sometimes, Al has a difficult time getting to the point.

Al sighs, looks to Alexander. “Eacker is dead.”

Al speaks the name of Philip’s murderer with hesitance, as everyone in their family does, but instead of the scowl that usually accompanies it, Al fights a smile. Al ends up covering his mouth with his hand to hide it.

“Are you certain?” Alexander asks, his voice hushed as he leans in towards Al.

Al nods, and twirls one of his curls around his finger. “He died of consumption, last week. He got it when he was putting out a fire in a snowstorm.” He pauses. “I feel awful because when I first heard someone say that he died, my first thought was _please God, let it be true._ ”

“Hey.” Alexander reaches across the desk to put his hand on Al’s arm, an attempt to comfort his son. “It’s okay. Thinking that doesn’t make you a bad person,” he says, because it doesn’t, or maybe it does, but Alexander doesn’t care because he’s glad, too. A little bit of closure. “He had it coming.”

Al gives a half-hearted shrug, says, “I suppose you’re right.” 

“Of course I’m right,” Alexander says, and he gets a small smile from Al. “And what do you say if you hear someone trashing me?” 

“Hamiltons only fight with wits?” 

“No,” Alexander says. “You say that I probably deserve every damn word.” He waves his hand. “You can throw in some insults yourself. Like, he sucks at gardening. He killed the cabbages.”

_“Pops!”_

 

* * *

 

 

> _You can’t ignore me, now. I’ll write to you every day until you answer. I know you’re spending all day sitting at the head of the Senate, you have plenty of time to write to me while you hear testimony. People will probably just think you’re doodling._

The impeachment trial starts. From the second-hand reports that Alexander hears and reads, he finds out that Burr is doing quite well. He isn’t surprised, Burr is wicked smart. _Burr rules with the dignity and impartiality of an angel, but with the rigor of the devil_ , Alexander reads, and he longs to see this version of Burr in person. 

Alexander writes,

 

> _I wish I were there._
> 
>  

He waits a week and a half to get a response from Burr that amounts to: _leave me alone._

 _Nice try,_ Alexander thinks as he starts another letter.

 

* * *

 

Eliza wakes Alexander up, murmuring in her sleepy morning voice, “Alexander, I need you,” and her hand on him. Alexander lets out a content sigh, and kisses her senseless, running his hand through her hair and whispering sweet talk against her lips until she pulls away to turn over so her back is to him. He curls against her, on his side with his front to her back, and with an urgency he moves her leg so he can slide in from behind and she’s so wet and ready that they both moan once he’s inside. 

His movements are precise, rolling his hips so he thrusts in deep, the angle is great and Eliza lets out a soft, breathy gasp every time he thrusts in. Alexander loves it like this, loves making love to Eliza, he loves it when it’s so intense that he forgets everything but the feeling of her skin against his, because she is his everything. 

“Love you,” Alexander says, _whines_ , wraps his leg high around Eliza’s waist and speeds up his movements. He’s breathing hard into her ear, kind of ragged, and his side is starting to act up and hurt a little but he doesn’t want to stop.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Eliza says, her hand going to Alexander’s leg that’s hooked over her. She squeezes his thigh, encouraging him until he does slow and she says, “Just like that, you feel so good,” and Alexander presses his face to her shoulder and keeps his thrusts slow and even as tears prickle at his eyes. He stalls, tired from his earlier frenzied pace, and is slumped and panting against Eliza, but she doesn’t say anything, she just pushes back on his cock until he’s rested enough that he can start again. 

Alexander’s hand roams her front, thumb brushing over her nipples and then trailing down her stomach down down down until his fingers are at her clit and fuck, the choked moan she makes when he rubs her there is a delight. He repeats it, circling her with two fingers, and Eliza leans her head back on his shoulder, tilting so she can look at him. Alexander takes the opportunity to kiss her on the mouth, slow and languid to match their pace.

Eliza comes, clenching around him and moaning his name, and it’s so perfect and lovely that a couple desperate thrusts more and Alexander follows.

After, they rest against each other, spent, and enjoying the early sunlight streaming in through the window. Alexander sighs happily with his head on Eliza’s chest, hearing how her heartbeat gradually returns to normal, and Eliza plays with Alexander’s hair.

“What are you going to do today?” Eliza asks, the casual conversation between spouses post-sex. She moves her hand to rub Alexander’s belly, something that always relaxes Alexander. “I think I’m going to town with Angelica to get some spring clothes for the kids. James has outgrown all of his, and John has declared he hates the color blue, which happens to be the color of his best jacket.”

Alexander chuckles. “He’s a persnickety kid.”

“He takes after you,” Eliza says, and kisses the top of Alexander’s head.

Alexander smiles, and then yawns and stretches. “I think I’ll write to Burr today.” 

“So no different than any other day,” Eliza says, plainly. Alexander feels his face flush and he’s glad that she can’t see his expression. But the way his body goes tense must give him away because she says, softer, “You miss him.”

“No,” Alexander says, but then flops onto his back next to Eliza, and stares at the ceiling. “Maybe? I don’t know.” He turns to look at Eliza, who’s got an amused sly grin. “I don’t wish Burr to be our pillow talk.”

“Of course, dear,” Eliza says, and leans in to kiss the wrinkles next to his eyes where he’s got them scrunched up.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Alexander does miss Burr. It’s going on five months since he’s seen Burr — longer than the time they spent together after their duel.  Although insignificant to when he’s known him overall, it’s enough time to forget how it was and could be. But something started between them, it simmering at Alexander’s insides, and he knows that Burr must feel it too. He figures that’s one reason why Burr is distancing himself. 

But Alexander thinks that it can’t be that simple, and then he realizes — Burr wants to be condemned.

Burr has always been the martyr type, and loves to self-deprecate. It would be easiest if everyone hated him — Alexander included — because then he doesn’t have to answer the difficult questions. If the public doesn’t know that all is well between them, that they’re _friends_ , then he doesn’t have to explain how he managed to earn his way back into Alexander’s good graces.

Things may be okay between them, but the air must be cleared with everyone else. Alexander won’t wait for it to happen — he makes things happen. 

Alexander decides to write about it. About the disillusionment of their partnership, and how they came to the conclusion they’ve both had some faults. Alexander writes some things he hasn’t said to Burr. He leaves out the stuff about their plans for a future election — it’s not the time to announce that, yet. If ever. 

He doesn’t bother to send the pamphlet to Burr. Burr isn’t answering him anyway, and it’ll get to Burr, eventually. 

Alexander writes it over the course of a couple hours one night. He considers it some of his finest work. He titles it— 

_Concerning the Duel with Aaron Burr, and his Sensibilities_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!  
> \- [Congress in 1804](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/8th_United_States_Congress)  
> \- George Eacker actually died in early 1804, but hey, lmm did not stay historically accurate so I don't either. But he did die because he got sick from fighting fires.  
> \- [Burr ruling in the trial](http://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/resources/pdf/aaron_burr.pdf) \- with the "rigor of the devil" quote  
> \- [this song](https://youtu.be/SYlil0HqOu8) from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 is vibes of hamburr's letter writing  
> \- I got the bit about Hamilton's awful gardening from the book about them by Fleming
> 
> Remember, this is slow burn. Hamilton and Burr will have their time.


	9. Aaron V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diplomacy is a long game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the updating taking a long time, here is over 17,000 words for a chapter. What's having consistently-sized chapters? Who knows. A lot of stuff happens. Enjoy.
> 
> Many many thanks to [videogamedoc87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/videogamedoc87/pseuds/videogamedoc87) for reading over various parts of this chapter, being my cheerleader, and offering suggestions — including the use of the word "llama" (you'll know it when you see it). Thanks, dude!

There is a dynamic undercurrent in the Senate.

Two weeks into the testimony of the Justice Chase impeachment trial, and every day is every bit as much of a torment as Aaron had imagined it would be. The Democratic-Republican controlled government trot out circumstantial evidence and draw conclusions to get their obviously biased point across. It’s dreadful and barely remains fair, but the only thing Aaron can do is make sure it doesn’t become too off-base.

Aaron isn’t so excessively conceited to think that the attention of over a hundred men is focused on him, but he swears that the unease is because of him. It _is_ because of him, he knows it. The Federalists are snide to him because of his infraction towards Hamilton, and the Democratic-Republicans maintain a two-faced persona with him because while they don’t want his _mess_ in their corner, they want to cajole him into siding with them (that is to say, with _Jefferson_ ) on the trial.

Not that he could. Or _would._ Aaron does his duty. He doesn’t give any indication one way or another of his opinion. _Impartial,_ he’s called, but that doesn’t bother him, as it’s something he’s been accused of being his whole life. This is, in fact, the perfect place for him because it’s somewhere that he’s required to be impartial. He makes sure that neither side barrels over the other, takes all objections into consideration, intervenes when an interrogator fails to follow a line of questioning, demands clarification when an answer is ambiguous, and allows Chase’s attorney to actually have opportunity to defend him (as is his constitutional right). Nobody can say Aaron is incompetent.

“I forgot how smart you are,” Pickering of Massachusetts tells him. Aaron takes it as a compliment, even if it’s a backhanded one.

Aaron does begin to lose his patience through the arduous process when it’s obvious that nobody respects him, or the sanctity of the law. The senate is an unruly bunch, and they think of Aaron as irrelevant. Senators walk around while witnesses are under examination, don’t wear appropriate attire, talk amongst themselves about non-court related matters, and on more than one occasion, eat at their seats.

“Do you want some?” Bradley of Vermont asks, causing the proceedings to come to a complete halt and offering the plate with his cake. From across the room, Aaron sees crumbs fall onto the floor.

Aaron becomes even more unpopular after he instates the rule banning cake, and other foods, in court. Most people choose to ignore this rule, and continue bringing whatever they please.

This isn’t what Aaron signed up for.

In between the days of the trial, there are other unpleasantries that make Aaron grateful that he has less than a month left as President of the Senate. He has to preside over the joint session of Congress when the electoral votes are counted, and he gets the great privilege of announcing that Jefferson wins the election for a second term as President, and that George Clinton will become the new Vice President. It’s a deep twist of the knife in the wound, to be the reporter of your own defeat, but Aaron bears it with poise. They’re looking for a reaction, so he doesn’t give them one. He clings to the dignity that he has left.

They don’t intend to let him, however. As soon as his replacement is known, they don’t hold back on trying to completely eliminate him from having association within the government. One Congressional meeting is about whether all former Vice Presidents should have the right of franking. Postage-free mail. Aaron listens with mild objectivity while the group discuss _him_ without outright mentioning him — it’s clearly a roomful of politicians, with their ability to talk around a topic. It sets the senators at unease, one saying, “We might hereafter have a Vice President to whom it would be improper to grant the privilege,” and even though nobody names Aaron, they all turn to look at him. Aaron wants to say _I’m right here_ , but really, what good would it do? He isn’t sure what harm they expect he could do with free postage, but in a way he’s flattered that they’re so suspicious of him that it could be a possibility. _Good,_ Aaron thinks. Let them think he could bring down the free world with simply unchecked personal correspondence.

Eventually, John Quincy Adams — a man more good-natured, unflustered, and all around more pleasant than his father — raises the point that it’s a bit _indelicate_ having Aaron be in chair while they discuss the matter.

For the first time in the meeting, everyone takes Aaron into consideration. They regard him as if he’s an inconvenience.

Aaron clears his throat, and then he says, “I am apprehensive that tomorrow I’ll be afflicted with pain in the head and unable to attend these meetings.”

It’s a pretense, an offering of cooperation to defuse the situation, but it backfires when someone — it doesn’t matter who, they’re all the same now, all _against_ him — furrows his brows and asks, “Aren’t you feeling unwell now? Why don’t you go home early?”

They don’t even wait until Aaron closes the door behind him to start talking about him, _“Now that Burr is gone…”_

Aaron makes himself scarce the next day, and the day after that too, staying cooped up in his modest, rented Georgetown home. He’s sure that he could never go back and nobody would mind; if they happened to notice he was gone, they could throw a party in his absence, and then could eat all the cake they desired just to spite him.

He sleeps in late and lies in bed even later when he can’t quiet his mind enough to sleep, until the sun is heading back towards the horizon and Theo makes him get out bed and do sensible things like eat and wash his face and not wallow into the night too. “Finish strong, Papa,” Theo tells him. When she says it, it’s his encouragement to go on because he wants to do well, wants to be strong for her. Theo doesn’t deserve an aimless father — he’s all she has in this world, as she is all he has.

“What are you doing?” Aaron asks, looking over Theo’s shoulder. She’s smiling down at the letter she’s in the process of writing.

Without removing her eyes from the letter, Theo says, whimsically, “Writing to Hamilton.” When Burr makes a strained sound, Theo adds, “To his child, obviously. What business would I have with the General?”

Burr harrumphs. “I hope you aren’t writing to the junior Alexander. He’s too young for you.” Although, he can see the beginning of Theo’s letter addressed, _Dear A. Hamilton._

Theo covers the rest of her writing with her arm.

“Weren’t you younger than Mother?” Theo quizzes. “Much younger than Al is to me?”

Sometimes, Aaron hates that she’s so clever.

 

* * *

 

Aaron admits that he misses Hamilton. _His_ Hamilton, Alexander. Having him there would make things easier, because then he would have someone on his side with everything that’s happening. Aaron cracks a smile when he allows himself to think _what would Hamilton do?_ but then shakes the thought away because whatever Hamilton would do is probably something ill-advised and risky and the very opposite of what he should do.

Hamilton writes to him—

 

> _I wish I were there._

—and Aaron thinks, _me too._

It’s a letter that Aaron rereads often. Even though Hamilton isn’t there, he remains present. Hamilton won’t let himself fade from Aaron’s life — there’s a stack of unanswered letters from Hamilton on Aaron’s desk. Aaron has read them all multiple times, but he can’t bring himself to reply with a substantial response. His day is taken up with business, and when he gets home at night he’s drained and cannot fathom what he means to say to Hamilton. Hamilton demands some kind of deep, soul-searching conversation, wanting _more_ of him _,_ but Aaron doesn’t have anything to offer. He’s unable to discuss such things with Hamilton, he can’t when he can’t think of such things without his mind clouding until he’s so numb he can’t bear to think of anything. Aaron doesn’t know the right thing to say, so he says nothing at all.

However, it seems as though Hamilton is doing well. Like Aaron expected anything different. In his letters, Hamilton tells Aaron that he’s about to reopen his law office for business, and that his health can be considered as fully recovered ( _or as good as it’s going to be,_ Hamilton adds, _but when faced with the grim alternative, a limp in my step and occasional raspy breath are bearable)_. Nothing can stop Hamilton from continuing — not scandal, not grief, not malady, not death.

Aaron doesn’t ask it, but Van Ness, for the lack of a better word, _spies_ on Hamilton for him. Aaron realizes that he must give the impression that he cares enough about Hamilton to be invested in his day-to-day life, and he thinks to stop doing whatever makes him appear that way, but Van Ness is excited to be of use, so Aaron goes along with it.

So now, Aaron gets updates on Hamilton’s life in addition to the elaborate ones that Hamilton gives him himself. Van Ness has the habit of writing like he speaks, rambling and taking a while to get to the point, so Aaron often scans the letter until he sees what he’s looking for. Van Ness includes clippings of articles from New York newspapers about Hamilton (and some about Aaron, which Aaron wishes that Van Ness would let him go without but he is a masochist and he can’t bring himself to stop reading them), and confirms that Hamilton is indeed visiting his office again and when he’s not there he’s usually with his family. It alleviates a worry, not known until it’s gone, that Hamilton is doing as he tells Aaron. That Hamilton has nothing to hide.

Aaron feels less transparent. Every time he gets a new piece of Hamilton to hold on to — pages and pages of Hamilton’s neat scrawl filled with just about anything Aaron could want, the feel of his hair wet and silky between his fingers, his smile directed towards Aaron that’s so bright it outshines the sunlight, his body pressed against his as he clings to him for support — every time Hamilton shares more of himself, Aaron hides more of himself away. Hamilton makes him feel vulnerable, having all of this of Hamilton but nothing to keep.

He yearns for more of Hamilton. It’s been months since that last day Aaron saw him, when they threw the matching set of pistols into the pond. It feels like an eternity since then, and the day on the Weehawken shore feels even further away. But that is impossible, because there’s nothing more unreachable than eternity.

Van Ness tells him: 

 

> _Hamilton seems to be happy. I gathered this information while he was selecting flowerpots and I was across the street browsing satchels, but I suppose I am not as good a sleuth as I aspire to be because Hamilton spotted me. After calling me over to him, he asked, “Why hasn’t Burr answered my letters?” in a cross and rather hurtful tone. I was embarrassed, as I did not have a suitable excuse, and I was left to feign ignorance. I think my distraction from his interrogation worked; I knocked over a flowerpot and broke it on the floor (which I am expecting you to reimburse me for). However, it remains a good question — why haven’t you responded to Hamilton?_

Aaron doesn’t think that he’ll be able to ignore Hamilton, and this inextricable tension between them, for much longer.

 

* * *

 

There’s a flutter of disturbance in the halls of Congress.

It’s the most active Aaron has seen it since the election, with members of the government (everyone, Aaron notes, when he sees Jefferson in a corner with Madison) converging together to facetiously discuss something that is definitely not government related. He knows that the hoopla is about _him_ by the way the chatter comes to a complete hush when they notice he’s there — some keep talking until they’re elbowed by another — and then they curse when they see Aaron standing there. Being talked about is nothing new, he’s used to people breaking out in whispers when he enters a room.

“Good morning,” Aaron says, because he is not afraid of anyone, let alone some gossipy congressmen.

Nobody returns his greeting; instead, Aaron is met with snickers as they turn back to each other, rudely continuing their conversation as if he isn’t there. Whatever.

If only the citizens knew how immature those making decisions and running the country were.

 _Only a few weeks more,_ Aaron tells himself as he walks through the crowd. _Finish strong._

But of course, in Aaron’s experience, anything that can go wrong, will.

Later, Aaron would wish that he did not see the pamphlet that seemingly everyone has a copy of. He should have ignored it, he should have listened to that foreboding apprehension inside himself that he had ignored on another instance that ended badly, he should have _waited_ so that he would have a few more hours of peace before he had to acknowledge its existence.

But, he doesn’t. He asks an open question, “What have I done this time?” Senators exchange glances, as though they’re unsure how to deal with the problem of Aaron Burr. Aaron sighs. He’s at the end of his patience, really, and is _this_ close to telling them all off and resigning with only a few weeks left, but then Jefferson parts from the crowd and saunters towards him.

“ _You cannot judge a man by his worst act on his worst day,_ ” Jefferson reads, holding the pamphlet in front of him, his voice loud and echoing through the halls, his posture strong but still has that mellow laxity that makes him _him_. Jefferson makes a spectacle of it, as though he wants to make sure that everyone stops talking and watches him. And they do, and this is about the time where Aaron starts to wish he had left it alone. Jefferson pauses, and then looks over the pamphlet to smile at Aaron coldly and maliciously. “Sound familiar?”

Aaron knows those words, those are _his_ words that he said to Hamilton in confidence, a moment of that vulnerability. If they are in that pamphlet then that must mean…

Aaron wishes for a swift death.

He has no such luck, as he never does. His suspicions are confirmed as Jefferson continues reading, “ _This is a quote put forth by Mr. Burr to me, during private correspondence at my residence, in the weeks following our fateful interview. Mr. Burr is prone to sensationalizing my actions for his self-serving righteousness, and one, myself included, could think that this is his justification, a defense for preserving his innocence and reputation, which has already been subject to damage and public scorn.”_ Here, Jefferson laughs and adds his own comment, saying, “Ain’t that the truth.”

Hamilton’s writing style is unmistakable, and only Hamilton could say such things about him.

How _dare_ he.

The horror Aaron feels must be evident on his face, because Jefferson’s smile grows impossibly wider, and Jefferson looks back down at the pamphlet to read, and Aaron is so lost that he can only stand there and listen to it.

“ _However, while it is difficult to suggest that events that Mr. Burr experienced on the 11th of July in the year of our Lord 1804 constitutes as the worst day of his life when rivaled to mine, the fact remains that we cannot not know the inner workings and thoughts of another. We cannot fairly judge how one perceives a thing, for it is a private event in our minds and hearts. Although Mr. Burr has been cited to be a distrustful man, insults which, could be cited back to myself, and were the kindling for the path that has lead to our current bearings, I believe his statement to be honest — because upon recollection, he has had sincere moments among his unprincipled. And as it is, it would be unjust for me to spurn this instance of sincerity for my benefit, because then I would be no better, for I have committed acts that have depicted me as a negative character, and I have had a second chance to redeem myself with the public, and my personal relations. Mr. Burr is deserved of another chance as well, as every man has privilege to. In recent times, I discovered that I was mistaken of the integrity of Aaron Burr, he is a man that has been swept up in the vicious tide of government and pressured under threat. Mr. Burr has endeared himself to me, and, I know him more truly now than I have in my long history of knowing him.”_

There’s scattered laughter around Aaron, and then Jefferson looks away from Hamilton’s pamphlet, and goes, “Aww, how sweet.”

“Shut up,” Aaron says through gritted teeth, his face hot. The laughter is now background noise to the blood rushing in his ears.

“ _I would rather to think that the day is so devastating to him,”_ Jefferson says, continuing the inanity, “ _than for him to be indifferent, as if it were any other day to him. I do not argue that it isn’t his worst act; I do not hold a grudge against him for it, as it was conducted properly as a gentlemen’s interview, but with an examination of all of Mr. Burr’s feats, it qualifies to be one of the worst, my part in it and my hardships notwithstanding—“_

“I’ve heard enough,” Aaron says, and snatches the pamphlet from Jefferson’s hands. Everyone _oohs_ , like they’re pleased that they’ve finally got a rise out of Aaron. Jefferson laughs, a short and scoffed _ha,_ one that makes it look like he’s done nothing wrong, but then holds his hands up in surrender and says, “Whatever, man.”

Before Aaron does something else he regrets, he rushes away in the direction of his office, quickly enough to escape the mocking laughter.

He is not too disbelieving to not acknowledge the irony of this. It feels like retribution for when he was delighted to read a pamphlet where Hamilton was the object of humiliation.

Simple karma.

He doesn’t look at the pamphlet until he has refuge in his office, alone. He takes a deep breath, and then another, as he clutches the pamphlet in his hand. He tries to crinkle it, but it’s too thick with pages. He wonders what else Hamilton could have written, and with a shuddering hand he brings the pamphlet to his face.

_Concerning the Duel with Aaron Burr, and his Sensibilities, by Alexander Hamilton_

Fuck.

Aaron settles down (as best he can, with agitation bristling inside him) at his desk to read the pamphlet in its entirety. Hamilton had shown no restraint, his elegant and verbose writing filling up over forty-five pages with the history of _them_. It’s a run down of their relations, starting with their modest beginnings when they first met, how Aaron was the first person in America to show him any kindness, how Hamilton admired Aaron, how fate brought together two brilliant orphans who would go on with their lives intertwined. It’s grand, but Aaron is unjustifiably angry because that’s _personal_ — that young version of themselves has been something that Aaron has held on to. He’s often thought of that Hamilton — fanciful with just enough recklessness to be alluring, who wanted Aaron’s guidance before Hamilton decided to find another way to succeed (and Aaron often wondered if he disappointed Hamilton, or if he wasn’t what he was looking for).

Hamilton writes a flattering image of Aaron. Hamilton tells of Aaron’s genius, of course, following it up with comparing it to his own. Hamilton tells of Aaron’s feats in the military — Hamilton recounts the time when Aaron saved Hamilton’s brigade from capture when the British landed in Manhattan, and then acclaimed him for fighting in the hell that was Monmouth. From there, it covers their time working as lawyers together, and angst twists in Aaron’s insides as he reads because he knows that that is when things became poisoned between them. Their political differences, their falling-out when one refused to follow the other, the unpleasant things they said that neither can ever take back — it’s worse, reading it all at once, knowing how it goes. The story reaches the climax, a retelling of that day in Weehawken, and Hamilton had included their exchange of letters that lead up to duel. Now, Aaron feels ashamed reading it — he had been so _angry_ that he couldn’t see sense, and Hamilton had reacted in the same way.

Now, everyone can bear witness to the petty quarrel of two foolish men.

Aaron has renewed relief reading, _That could have been the end, however, good fortune blessed both us — yes, both myself and Mr. Burr — and I lived._

The more Aaron reads, the more he comes to the conclusion that Hamilton did this to spite him. No — it isn’t a malicious act, but it’s something targeted, certainly. A plea for attention, because Aaron didn’t made Hamilton his entire focus and respond to his letters. Hamilton hasn’t changed at all; he’s all or nothing.

However…

Even Hamilton’s most harebrained ideas are calculated and serve a purpose. This is Hamilton forcing Aaron to be involved. By writing a treatise on their relations, it associates Aaron with Hamilton, irrevocably — to have a different legacy, something with hope instead of ruin.

And hadn’t that been what Aaron had intended with the promise of an election to Hamilton?

It’s a battle of one ensnaring the other. Hamilton just did it better.

When Aaron gets to the part Jefferson had read aloud, Aaron reads it again. It’s not as bad when not narrated by Jefferson’s pompous rendition, especially when he reads what follows: 

 

> _However, I trust Mr. Burr to know his own inner turmoil, as I know my own. It is not unthinkable that a man would consider a day that was, unjustly, constructed to be his downfall, to be his worst day. I, for one, know how it feels to be faced with the repercussions of horrible actions—_

Aaron rolls his eyes. Of course, Hamilton has to keep bringing himself into this.

 

> _—but the true measure of integrity is how a person handles those repercussions. Mr. Burr handled himself as gentlemen should during our interview (even the loathsome ordeal is asinine, and if I may suggest, archaic), and has been honorable afterward, offering the space to discuss differences, understanding, and friendship. Not many have the pleasure to know him as I do, and I feel as though I must dispel any talk of us being rivals. Mr. Burr and I are intelligent men, and it will do no good to pit us against another as ends for entertainment, or benefit. It is a matter of our own._
> 
> _A matter, which, although it was nearly at great personal loss to my being, I am glad for because we have came through on the other side better men._

Aaron begins his reply immediately, writing while the fury of it burns, writes like how he remembers seeing Hamilton do many times, hunched over a desk and smearing ink as his hand moves across the page, writing what comes to mind — _we were fine but then you go and do this and ruin it you crazy selfish man do you have any impulse control at all why do you ruin everything I was going to come back to you I am the one worried that you’ll leave you didn’t have to—_

But then he stops. He realizes this is _exactly_ what Hamilton wants. Hamilton wants a corresponding, fervent response to prove that this — what they have between them — means something.

Hamilton will not spur Aaron to action by anger, not again.

Aaron crumbles the paper, and then goes as far to start a fire to turn it into ashes.

He can play the long game.

 

* * *

 

It takes only a few days for the buzz of the pamphlet to die down. Congressmen stop quoting it to Aaron in the hallways, or in the Senate itself, because it’s not fun to taunt him when he acts as though it doesn’t bother him. He maintains his blasé affect that he’s kept so well while holding his office.

Another reason why they don’t harass Aaron is because they simply don’t have the time. Everyone in the Capitol is either busy with the impeachment trial that’s nearing the end or the inauguration that’s within a week, or in some cases, both. Aaron is exhausted, working late to review transcripts of the trial, or complete eleventh-hour projects that Jefferson saddles him with. He keeps himself occupied so he doesn’t think about how miserable he is. He’s so distracted in fact, that Hamilton crosses his mind only once in a while.

The end is near, and his mantra is to stay alive until then.

But Hamilton is intrusive, even when he’s not there, and Aaron does think of Hamilton sometimes. Aaron thinks of what Hamilton will say when he sees him again, and how he’ll justify the _Aaron Burr_ pamphlet. He thinks of how Hamilton is damaged, the once energetic soldier is now a man restricted, a man who hates boundaries now has to live by new ones that he can’t do anything about. He thinks about how they both force a knowing (sad) smile at each other, and they don’t mention that it’s Aaron’s doing that Hamilton is this way, and that comes along when he thinks of how Hamilton’s smile flickers when he grits his teeth in pain. Aaron thinks of Hamilton’s smile, his real one — how his teeth part like he’s ready to laugh, his eyes get kind of squinty and the skin next to them crinkling, his laugh lines which have deepened as he’s aged. He thinks of the delicate slope of Hamilton’s neck from years of looking down to read and write, and he thinks of tan skin that’s underneath his clothes, and the splattering of dark freckles on his shoulders. Aaron thinks of why does he think of Hamilton so goddamned much.

So, yes. He thinks of Hamilton, sometimes.

And when he doesn’t, it’s only a matter of time before Hamilton returns. He can push him out of his mind for only so long.

Which is why Aaron doesn’t think much of it on day three of closing arguments when he thinks he sees Hamilton come through the courtroom door. Aaron supposes that he’s been driven to a state of exhaustion. Or possibly, insanity. Yes. It’s definitely the latter. He had attempted to excise himself of Hamilton in all forms — first by correspondence, then by disregarding thoughts of him, too — but now he’s hallucinating him. It’s fitting, that Hamilton would invade his psyche as well. He has no respect for personal space.

This Hamilton is a figment of his imagination, nothing more. Perhaps Hamilton always has been. Some great, impossible thing. Aaron can’t let anyone know that he’s actually, well, crazy. So he averts his eyes, away from the imposing Hamilton.

Except that everyone else in the room has turned around to look at where Hamilton stands in the doorway. Hamilton smiles when he’s acknowledged. The entire is Senate looking right at him, and he’s euphoric, and that smile is _real_ and Aaron knows then that he is real, too.

So—

Good news: Aaron isn’t losing his mind. Hamilton is here.

Bad news: Hamilton is here.

(On second thought, he thinks that maybe those should be reversed.)

It’s completely silent for the first time in hours as Hamilton dramatically flings the door shut behind him, the slam of it echoing in the high-ceilinged room, and then tosses his hair over his shoulder. There’s a fraught silence as he moves with a slow, careful swagger that would have been ridiculous had he not looked so impressive. Aaron really looks at him now that he has to accept that he’s there. Hamilton is dressed in green (which has always looked great on him, Aaron admits), he’s gained some of his weight back since the last time Aaron saw him, his tan glow is back to his skin, and he’s got that presence of self-confidence that is indubitably _his_.

Hamilton looks like himself again.

Someone could see him now, and never know how _bad_ he had got, never know that anything had ever happened to him — if it weren’t for his awkward step. Hamilton doesn’t let that hold him back, though. He takes his time as he walks down the aisle of the courtroom, a rhythm of step- _limp_ , using the cane that Jefferson had got him. He plays off his unhurried pace as though he’s making sure everyone takes notice of him as he passes — he acknowledges people as he goes by them, giving them a big smile and hard glare like he _dares_ them to say anything. Wisely, they don’t — they just stare agape at Hamilton, and then look up to Aaron, waiting for his reaction.

Aaron doesn’t see the room looking to him, though. He’s too focused on Hamilton as he comes nearer — he can’t look away. Their eyes meet, and it’s as though there’s nobody else in the room except the two of them. Months apart have done nothing to dull the charged tension, with only implicit conversation between them adding to the anticipation of this moment when they would meet again. Because they always will meet again.

Hamilton stops when he's a few feet away from the bench, and he inclines his head up at Aaron like, _you can’t ignore me now, huh?_ It’s telling that Aaron’s first reaction is elation, a warmth fluttering in his chest when he sees Hamilton smiling at him with a look that’s like he has six emotions on his face at once — but then he remembers that he’s supposed to be angry with Hamilton.

Aaron should throw him out, and everyone is looking at him as though they expect him to — they’re ready for a show, the trial forgotten — but Aaron doesn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it is. And besides, Hamilton came all this way.

“Hamilton, sit down,” Aaron says. At least in the Senate, he has authority.

Grinning, Hamilton shrugs, then takes a seat next to Pickering near the front and settles in for the rest of the session. Aaron takes no notice of him and does his job, but he can feel Hamilton’s gaze on him the entire time.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is surrounded when the session is over for the day, everyone wanting to speak to the guy who can’t seem to die — in actuality, or in the society. They pat him on the back and tell him _it’s good to see you_ , Federalists and Democratic-Republicans alike. Hamilton smiles, thanks them politely, makes a joke that he got lost on the ride there and that’s why he hasn’t been to the Capitol in years. It gets a good laugh.

Beyond the crowd, Hamilton keeps glancing to Aaron. Making sure Aaron is still there, and hasn’t escaped him again.

Aaron hears his name mentioned in the conversation surrounding Hamilton.

“If I could have a moment alone with the guest of honor,” Aaron says, brisk, as he parts through the group who curse at him under their breath. He ignores them, nods at Hamilton, indicating that he should follow him. He doesn’t wait to find out if Hamilton does. He turns and walks out of the Senate, his ears deaf to the remarks that Senators don’t try to quiet. This is _his_ arena, Hamilton be damned if he tries to control him here. If that takes making an example out of Hamilton, so be it.

Hamilton should follow, after how hard he’s campaigned to speak to him. Aaron is tempted to look over his shoulder to see, but he thinks that he could turn into a pillar of salt because he looked back when he shouldn’t. So he keeps going — although, walking slower than normal — until he hears uneven footsteps and the click of a cane on the hard floors behind him.

“Hold the fuck up, Burr,” Hamilton shouts. “You know I can’t go that fast, you—”

Aaron rounds on him, closes the distance between them. “What are you doing here?”

Hamilton blinks, taken aback from Aaron’s demand. Hamilton leans on his cane, huffing. He shoots Aaron a contemptuous look while he catches his breath. Aaron can hear a slight wheeze coming from Hamilton. He feels a little bad that he made Hamilton chase him down when he knows Hamilton isn’t as fit, but he can’t apologize now. He will later, when they aren’t glaring daggers.

“Checking up on you,” Hamilton says, finally. “I thought you might’ve died, since you stopped responding to me.”

It’s Hamilton’s self-satisfied smile that does Aaron in.

“Who do you think you are?” Aaron asks, because honestly, the _gall_ of him.

Hamilton’s eyes light up, as though them arguing excites him. He’s having the time of his life. Aaron can tell.

Hamilton turns away slightly, spreads his arms wide, his cane flinging in the air and almost smacking Aaron.

“Pardon me,” Hamilton says, his voice loud and carrying in the high-ceilinged room of the Capitol building. He puts his arms down, the end of his cane clacking on the floor. “This man doesn’t think I know who I am. Please confirm my identity.”

At this point, Aaron doesn’t know what to expect from him. He knows that he could run away from Hamilton, he could sprint off and hide and Hamilton could never find him.

He doesn’t.

Hamilton’s outburst garners the attention he had wanted — congressmen who apparently had nothing better to do other than not minding their own business take interest in them.

“My God, you’re Alexander Hamilton,” says one, and another adds, “Did you lose your sense even more after Burr shot you?” and then they both laugh. Hamilton joins them. Aaron does not.

“My office, now.” Aaron points in the direction of his office, doesn’t move until Hamilton heaves a sigh of annoyance, surrendering, says, “Okay, okay,” and lets Aaron guide him.

“Be careful,” Aaron hears someone say. “Better do as Burr says, or he’ll try to kill you.”

Aaron looks beside him at Hamilton. He wonders if his face is as inscrutable as Hamilton’s.

“Ignore them,” Aaron says, pushing Hamilton to continue. Hamilton doesn’t fight him.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton makes himself at home when they’re in Aaron’s office. He lays his cane against Aaron’s desk, unbuttons his coat, and then sits down without being told to do so. He settles, leaning back in the comfortable armchair, and looks around the dimly-lit office. “Nice digs.”

Aaron doesn’t mention that it’s customary to remain standing until he’s seated, as he is the second-highest power in the country. At least, for a few more days.

He sits behind his desk to distance himself from Hamilton, and to gain some semblance of authority. Hamilton isn’t fooled. He knows him as _just Burr._

“Have something to say?” It sounds like a challenge when Hamilton asks it.

Aaron has a _lot_ to say, but he starts with the most acute matter. He opens his drawer, takes out the pamphlet _Concerning the Duel with Aaron Burr_ , tosses it on the surface of the desk. It’s the same copy that he had taken from Jefferson, worn, the edges tattered from frequent readings. Hamilton leans forward in his seat, inspects it as though he’s never seen it before, and then looks up at Aaron through his eyelashes, says, “Ah,” with only the slightest amount of remorse, and even that sounds faked.

“What were you _thinking_?” Aaron asks, but then he sighs and rubs his forehead because he isn’t sure he _wants_ to know what lunacy made Hamilton do such a thing. “Given your track record with sensational, tell-all pamphlets, I’d think you’d give it a second thought before publishing it.” Now he’s going to be in the trio of the Hamilton pamphlets — Adams, Reynolds, Burr. Given how it’s gone previously, his reputation is over. Not that he had much, anyway.

Hamilton waves his hand dismissively, and reclines in the chair with elegant ease, crosses one leg over the other. He says, “Oh, it isn’t that bad. It was an opinion piece. The only thing I exposed was the true nature of our interpersonal relations.”

Hamilton’s unconcerned view of the situation does not make Aaron feel better, as Hamilton doesn’t start to worry about problems until it’s too late. This is no different — Hamilton made them both out to be melodramatic idiots. It’s said it’s better to be thought a fool than to remove all doubt, and well, Hamilton removed the doubt from the equation.

“In addition,” Hamilton adds, “I am offended that you think I didn’t carefully deliberate the aspects of the piece. That I didn’t go through countless drafts, that I didn’t weigh the pros and cons of releasing the information to the public.” He crosses his arms, raises one eyebrow in that alluring way that he does. “I thought you knew me better than to think I’d be careless.”

“I never said you were careless. In fact, I think you knew _exactly_ what you were doing.” Aaron leans forward, places his elbows on his desk. “Your stunt worked. You wanted to talk to me, and here you are. But you could have sent it to just me. That would’ve been a significant enough declaration.”

Hamilton scoffs. “So you could ignore it, too?” He shakes his head. “No, I had to make sure you attended to it.”

“Humiliation is not a way to endear yourself to me.”

There’s a crack in Hamilton’s boldness, for the first time since he returned to Aaron. He runs a hand through his hair, using the motion to look away from Aaron for a moment, and then lets out a long sigh. His eyes are sadder when he focuses back on Aaron and quietly says, “I meant well.”

Aaron doesn’t doubt that, but. Still. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Yes, I hope so—”

“Well, it does,” Aaron says. “Thank you for…whatever it is you were trying to do.”

Hamilton’s mouth tugs into a half grin, which would have been more beguiling if Hamilton wasn’t looking at him like he thinks Aaron is an idiot. “Honestly, you don’t know?”

“You wanted to see how far you could push me?”

Aaron had been aiming for a laugh from Hamilton, but instead Hamilton knits his brows together into sad, upward slants. “You weren’t talking about it. About what really happened. So I had to,” Hamilton says. “I couldn’t let you become the villain in my history.”

“That’s my problem to deal with,” Aaron replies. Although, he thinks that he is more significant than to be reduced to his fateful encounter with Hamilton.

“How did you plan to _deal_ with it?” Hamilton asks, quirking his fingers into quotations. “By _not_ dealing with it?”

Aaron frowns, and shuffles some papers on his desk.   He needs to start packing up, he realizes. “You’ve reintroduced the subject. People were bored with it,” Aaron explains. It had been nice when he had been told _you almost killed Hamilton_ only few times a week, compared to every day. Like he could ever _not_ remember. “I worked very hard to be inconsequential,” Aaron says, wryly, but it’s partly true — he’d rather be forgotten than notorious for things he’d like to forget. “But then, you went and stirred up trouble. As you do best.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you,” Hamilton says.

“It wasn’t.”

“Too late.”

It feels as though Hamilton is avoiding the topic, too, but Aaron won’t let him. He stares at Hamilton from across the desk until Hamilton sighs, his lighthearted expression changing into something very, very serious.

“I wasn’t going to let you live in the shadows. You’re…better than that,” Hamilton says. Aaron thinks of Hamilton dragging him down with him, a mutual destruction. But that’s how they’ve been for years.

Hamilton asks, “Do you always want to be known as the man who shot me?”

“I didn’t need your help,” Aaron snaps. Aaron expects Hamilton to respond with just as much heat, but Hamilton’s face softens into something that too sympathetic, and hard to meet.

“I think you do. You’re kind of a disaster,” Hamilton says, and raises his hand to stop Aaron from speaking when he goes to interrupt. “It’s not belittling to accept help—”

“I didn’t _accept_ anything. You did it without asking,” Aaron points out, interrupting anyway. Hamilton may be acting as though this was an entirely selfless act, but Hamilton was clearing his own name, too. “You’ve made us both out to be asses, you saying how honest and pure of heart I am, when you’ve called me the antithesis of that in the past!”

“Burr—”

“So it seems as though we were too imbecilic to figure this out before we went off to shoot at each other!”

Calmly, Hamilton asks, “But isn’t that exactly what happened?”

Aaron huffs. He won’t admit that Hamilton is right, that’d just make the man more insufferable. “Others didn’t need to be involved in our business,” Aaron says. There already was talk of him and Hamilton, but now it’s of a different sort — that they’re _warm._ It makes Aaron unsettled for a reason he can’t figure out, other than wanting that to be private.

Hamilton shrugs. “They’ll get over this, too,” Hamilton says. Aaron supposes that Hamilton is used to the tides of changing opinion, and this is just another cycle — Hamilton will bounce back like he always does. Hamilton uncrosses his legs, sits forward in the chair so he can put his elbows on Aaron’s desk. “You’re the one making a spectacle out of this, Burr. Have you bothered to see what people have been saying about the pamphlet?”

Aaron had purposely _not_ been looking. Taunts in the hallways had been enough. He didn’t need to read editorials, he doesn’t hate himself that much.

His non-answer tells Hamilton enough. “It’s been well-received,” Hamilton says. “It’s thought of as commendable for me to admit my faults, and people were interested in knowing about you and your motivations.” Hamilton clasps his hands together, rests his chin on top of them, and Aaron really hates that cheeky grin where Hamilton thinks he’s done something fantastic and is waiting to be told _good job_. “Nobody knows much about you.”

“So you’ve said before,” Aaron mutters. The jury is still out on whether anyone likes either of them. “Everyone is siding positively with us?”

Hamilton shrugs. “Well, not everyone. But there’s always going to be someone who doesn’t like what you do. So you know what I say?”

“That you’re going to do it anyway?” Aaron asks, and then he feels the glimmer of Hamilton’s laugh.

Smiling, Hamilton says, “Do what you know is right, and fuck the haters.”

Aaron shakes his head, chuckling at the absurdity that is Hamilton. He says, “You’re a plonk,” and then Hamilton is laughing too, doubling over and holding onto the desk and saying, “ _What the fuck, Burr?”_ and everything feels right between them again, like no time or distance has parted them at all.

And it feels right when Hamilton leans in towards Aaron, beckons for Aaron to do the same, him saying, “I wanna tell you something.” Aaron inches forward, leaning in from the opposite side of the desk, close enough so that he can feel Hamilton’s warm exhales against his face.

“I had to, don’t you see?” Hamilton whispers, like someone could be listening to them through the door. “I had to set things right. For our…future.”

“Future?” Aaron whispers back, because it seems right — speaking of things unknown, too precarious even for themselves. Hamilton’s rise to power, and Aaron making it happen.

It could be a horrible mistake.

But it might be the best mistake they’ve ever made.

“Yes,” Hamilton says, “We will be back here, but on our own terms,” and then gestures to the window outside, Aaron guessing he means the Capitol in general.

“ _We?_ Both of us?” They haven’t discussed Aaron’s role in this _plan_ of theirs regarding Hamilton’s candidacy. Aaron isn’t sure he could handle serving a sentence so close to the government again — but he doesn’t know how close Hamilton wants him, or what to expect.

“Of course,” Hamilton says, still in whispers. “I’m not letting you get away with this, either.”

Then it’s settled. “Okay.”

Hamilton nods, and then slumps back into the chair with an _oof_. He puts his hand to his side, discomfort strained on his face. Before Aaron can ask, Hamilton says, “I’m fine. It’s been a long day, that’s all. These buildings have, like, a thousand stairs.” Some of his humor returns, “And I had to see Jefferson. That always makes me feel sickly.”

Aaron offers a terse smile. “You look well,” he says. Hamilton does — Aaron can’t stop looking at him. He is breathtaking.

“Thanks.” Hamilton rubs at the back of his neck. “Eliza has made sure I’ve been, uh, taking care of myself.”

Something occurs to Aaron. “Did she come with you? Or any of your children?”

“No, I came alone. I’ve already wrote home to tell them I safely made it,” Hamilton says.

“You shouldn’t have travelled this far by yourself,” Aaron begins. “You could’ve—”

“I’m _fine_.” Judging by Hamilton’s aggressive defense, it sounds like it’s something he’s had to say a lot. Hamilton runs his hand through his hair, like he’s trying to calm down.

Aaron bites his lip, remembering how Hamilton’s hair felt between his own fingers.

“Listen,” Hamilton says, “I’m healthy. Except for the hitch in my step and occasionally getting out of breath, I’m better than I was before I got shot. So I won’t be any problem at all at your place.”

Aaron blinks. “What?”

“I already dropped off my bag there on my way in.” Hamilton picks up his cane, hardly uses it to stand. “I promised Theo that we’d be home by six.”

There’s no escaping him, it seems.

 

* * *

 

They don’t make it to Aaron’s by six, but only because Hamilton stopped the carriage and insisted on visiting some old friends. Hamilton talks to them through the window of the carriage while Aaron sits on the other side and glowers.

When they start off again, Hamilton says, “You’re that surly, and you wonder why you don’t have friends.”

“I have friends,” Aaron says.

Hamilton lets out a disbelieving scoff. “Who?” he asks, and then adds, “And you can’t say me, Van Ness, or Theo. Or Eliza.”

“You listed one more than I need,” Aaron says. He tilts his head to Hamilton. “I can do with one less.”

Hamilton opens his mouth to speak, but the carriage goes over a bump in the road, and he hits head on the roof. He spends the rest of the short ride sulking and staring at the window, until Aaron tugs on his sleeve and says, “C’mon, I didn’t mean it. Without you, Eliza wouldn’t be my friend either.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s a quarter to seven when they finally get to Aaron’s. Theo is so happy to have the extra company, so she isn’t cross when they’re late. They eat a light dinner, and then share a bottle of wine between the three of them while Hamilton regales them about his journey from New York. Hamilton is thriving, dazzling, his dark eyes bright, and he keeps having to pause because he’s making himself laugh about whatever he’s about to say. Aaron can’t help but be fascinated by him.

The conversation evolves as the night goes on, and Aaron sits back and watches Hamilton and Theo have a rapid-fire exchange in French that honestly, Aaron doesn’t get every word of. Around eleven, Theo retires to bed, but before she leaves Hamilton and Aaron sitting by the fireplace, she tells them, “You two better behave.”

They promise to remain civil, which is easy because all their fight for the day has been used up. They talk of simple things — the weather, deciding who the most gossipy members of the Senate are, how Hamilton’s youngest isn’t so small anymore and is prone to stealing things from pockets. Their conversation gets quieter, until Hamilton stops responding all together, dropping off in the middle of a sentence.

Aaron looks over, and smiles at the sight — Hamilton dozing, his head lolled to the side and face pressed against the high back of the chair. Aaron knows that Hamilton must be exhausted from his trip, but Hamilton is too vain to admit that it was too much exertion for him after he had protested so much that he could do it on his own.

He debates letting Hamilton sleep in the chair for the night, but he ends up gently nudging Hamilton awake, says, “Hey, wake up.”

“Not sleeping. Just resting my eyes,” Hamilton mumbles, like a child who refuses to go to bed.

“Come on, you can sleep in my bed,” Aaron says. “I’ll take the couch.” He’ll be hospitable, even if Hamilton invited himself to stay, unannounced. Theo has the spare room, so he’ll have to make do.

Hamilton has a look of brief confusion on his face, like for a moment he doesn’t remember where he is, but then he blinks up at Aaron, rubs his eyes, yawns. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of your bed,” Hamilton mumbles, as he holds out his hand for Aaron to help him up. Aaron grabs it, pulls Hamilton to a standing position, remains steady as Hamilton leans heavily against him. “We can share your bed.”

“Oh.” It would not be the first time Aaron has shared a bed with Hamilton — they’d often have to sleep in the same bed in a rented room when they had to travel for a trial they were co-counseling.

“Do you still fight your pillow and insist on keeping your bedmates awake too?” Aaron asks. In his experience, Hamilton is a restless, fitful sleeper, and it takes forever for his body and mind to settle down for sleep. Many of their nights on the road consisted of Aaron being kept awake as Hamilton tossed and turned, got up multiple times to pee, and tried to talk to Aaron about whatever topic crossed his mind in the dead of night. And then, on one occasion, Aaron woke up with Hamilton’s hair in his mouth because in the middle of the night Hamilton had scooted close to him for warmth.

They round the corner to Aaron’s room, and Hamilton yawns again, not bothering to cover his mouth. It triggers Aaron to yawn as well, in the odd way yawns seem to be mimicked. The yawn doesn’t clear his mind any — in fact, it makes him realize how tired he really is, and that he really _really_ doesn’t want to be kept all night by Hamilton’s fidgeting.

“What, you didn’t like our late-night pillow talks?” Hamilton asks, lightly laughing when Aaron sharply replies, “ _No_.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that I treasured them,” Hamilton says, the attempt at joking obvious, but it comes out as a sleepy slur. “Anyway,” he continues when they get in Aaron’s room, and they part to take off their daywear, “I’m so tired I think I won’t be much of a bother tonight. There’s no reason why we both shouldn’t be comfortable.”

Aaron is too tired to argue with Hamilton, and he longs for his bed, so he agrees.

They change facing away from each other. Hamilton mumbles, “It’ll be like old times.” Aaron doesn’t want old times, because nothing can be like _old times_ again and he doesn’t think he would want it to be even if it could. It’s too much to think of, he just wants to sleep.

Aaron gets his nightshirt on, and sneaks a look over his shoulder — Hamilton is sitting on the edge of the bed, struggling with his nightshirt where he’s got his hand caught in the sleeve. Hamilton lets out a whine of frustration as he continues to flap the sleeve, the shirt having him seemingly vexed, and Aaron takes pity on him.

Aaron kneels on the bed, touches Hamilton on the shoulder, says, “Here, let me help.” Hamilton tenses for a moment and Aaron thinks that he may push him away, but Hamilton relaxes and holds out his arm for Aaron to free his hand from the confines of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” Hamilton says once it’s done, and then promptly flops down, already taking up too much space. Aaron gives Hamilton a polite shove as he lies down, and then claims his portion of the blanket before Hamilton can steal that too. Hamilton tries — Aaron feels Hamilton tugging at it as he situates himself, but Hamilton finally gives up the tug-of-war.

Aaron blows out the candle on the nightstand, leaving them in darkness except for the moonlight streaming through the window, and turns his back to Hamilton. “Now go to sleep,” he says. “I have work in the morning. Government calls.”

Hamilton makes a sound that can be best described as _ugh_ and Aaron feels him shift again, and then—

“Jesus Christ! Your feet are fucking freezing,” Aaron hisses, edging his calves safely away from Hamilton’s cold feet. “You should’ve kept your stockings on.”

“Not comfortable,” Hamilton says, his voice muffled by the pillow. He moves his feet back, to trying to warm themselves against Aaron’s legs.

“Stop, Alexander!” Aaron resists the urge the push Hamilton out of bed. “Do you put your frigid feet to Eliza, too?”

“We’re able to stay warm just fine.  If you know what I mean.”

 _Is this still my penance?_ Burr thinks, and he suddenly feels a lot warmer all over.

“Alexander—”

“Okay, okay. Sleep well, Burr.”

For once, Hamilton falls asleep before Aaron. Eventually, Hamilton’s deep, steady breaths lull him to sleep, too.

 

* * *

 

Aaron wakes up to a warmth and a closeness that he isn’t familiar with — it’s been a long time since he’s shared a bed, or at least with anyone who stayed after he was done with them.

He opens his eyes and oh, yeah, he remembers. Hamilton.

It’s still dark outside but it’s nearly a full moon and there’s enough light that he can make out Hamilton’s features. In the course of the night, they’ve rearranged themselves so they’re facing each other, and…yeah, that’s Hamilton’s arm draped over his middle.

Evidently, in his unconscious sleeping state, Hamilton had reached out to Aaron, thinking that he was his wife. That’s the explanation, surely.

Thankfully Hamilton is still fast asleep, and Aaron is the only one privy to this awkward situation. They’re close enough that their knees are touching, and Hamilton has succeeded in pressing has his now warm feet against his. Aaron doesn’t think he can move Hamilton’s arm off of him and scoot away without waking Hamilton, and Aaron definitely doesn’t want that to happen — then they would both have to acknowledge to the other that it happened. One of two things would happen: Hamilton would be embarrassed (and Aaron doesn’t want to do that, he has some goddamn couth), or Hamilton would tease him about it mercilessly (the more likely of the two scenarios).

So Aaron is trapped. Trapped by Hamilton trying to cuddle him.

While Aaron tries to figure out the conundrum that is having his personal space being invaded, the proximity of Hamilton distracts him. He’s wide awake now and he has nothing better to do — so, he studies Hamilton.

Hamilton’s face is relaxed, something that never happens in his waking hours, when he’s always so so expressive. There’s no playful smile or an angry scowl — instead, his mouth is parted and he’s drooling on the pillow. Until now, Aaron never noticed how full Hamilton’s lips are, his bottom one extra pouty. It’s definitely a mouth that worries you, and once you knew him it worried you more. He wants to run his finger over the slight bump in Hamilton’s nose to see how it feels, that shape that’s perfect on Hamilton. Aaron counts the freckles on Hamilton’s face — one on his chin next to his beard, three on his cheek, a few on his forehead, one at the corner of his brow and another above it, one barely visible hidden inside his brow, one on his earlobe, two perfectly placed on his perfectly-shaped nose. When Aaron is done with that, he goes on to appreciate Hamilton’s inky-black eyelashes. He’d count those too, but that would take forever.

Hamilton’s hair is loose and a mess on the pillow, but one stray strand had escaped and is in Hamilton’s face. Without thinking, Aaron gently brushes it away — his hand stilling when he realizes that he hadn’t meant to touch him, only look.

Hamilton doesn’t wake, however. Hamilton sighs deeply, Aaron feeling the warm exhale of it on his face, and then Hamilton wrinkles his nose and licks his lips and he snuggles a fraction closer to Aaron as he mumbles something in his sleep. Then, he settles again.

Aaron can see Hamilton’s eyes moving underneath his eyelids. Hamilton is dreaming.   Aaron wonders what he dreams about. Probably ridiculous things.

 _How could I ever hate this man?_ Aaron asks himself as he looks at Hamilton’s soundly sleeping form.

Fondness, or something like it, tugs at his heart.

He goes back to sleep, not questioning the comfort he has with Hamilton next to him.

 

* * *

 

Aaron wakes up to an empty bed.

It’s normal for him, but not this time, when he had woken up expecting to see Hamilton asleep and slobbering on his pillow next to him. But the space next to him is empty, Hamilton having left the blankets tangled and the sheets warm.

It’s too early to tell if Aaron is disappointed.

He washes his face, shaves, starts to dress for the day. Now that he’s more alert, Aaron realizes that Hamilton must have woken up and seen how he was just a little closer than what’s decent, and left the bed before Aaron woke up too, mistakenly thinking that Aaron would never know how clingy he got in his sleep.

If that’s so, Aaron won’t say any different.

“There’s the sleepyhead,” Hamilton says from the small kitchen table when Aaron finally stumbles into the room some thirty minutes later after waking. Theo sits across from Hamilton, and laughs. Hamilton looks too chipper for this early in the morning — dressed in a handsome black outfit, his hair laying perfectly on his shoulders, looking well rested and bright-eyed — but then again, he wasn’t the one kept awake last night, memorizing the features of his face.

Aaron grunts at Hamilton — he won’t look at him, he can’t, not yet — and sits next to Theo, accepts the coffee that she pushes towards him. He holds it with both hands, takes a sip as he meets eyes with Hamilton across the table.

Aaron burns his tongue.

“Did you sleep well?” Aaron asks. It’s innocuous enough.

“Wonderfully,” Hamilton says, “I was warm all night long.”

Aaron swallows his coffee, burns his throat. The intensity of Hamilton’s stare burns hotter.

“And you?” Hamilton asks. “Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

The thing is, he actually slept quite well, for reasons he can’t admit — to Hamilton, or himself.

“No amount of sleep can help my beauty,” Aaron says, gruff, “but put your icy feet on me again and I’ll push you onto the floor.”

“Ignore him,” Theo says, rolling her eyes. “Papa is grumpy before he’s had breakfast.”

“Well, we can’t have that, Mister Vice President,” Hamilton says, and pushes him his uneaten toast that’s sodden with Aaron’s favorite peach jam.

 

* * *

 

Aaron knows that Hamilton wants to go with him to court, but only on the terms that Aaron _asks_ him _._ Aaron isn’t playing that game. He’s the patient one. He can wait Hamilton out. And besides — Hamilton shouldn’t even _be_ there, he’s nobody in the government and it’s closed proceedings. He needs some time away from Hamilton. Hamilton will here there in his home, in his bed, when he gets back. It won’t be long enough to miss him.

But his thoughts keep wandering to Hamilton. Hamilton _should_ be there.

At recess, Aaron skips lunch and goes home. He finds Hamilton asleep on the couch with his glasses on and a book in his lap. Hamilton wakes easy with a touch to his shoulder.

“I’m bored. Want to go with me?” Aaron asks.

Hamilton stands up and is putting on his coat before Aaron can finish the question. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

 

They start on opposite sides of the bed that night, but Aaron wakes up once again to Hamilton’s arm wrapped around him, and his body nestled close. Closer than he was the night before. Warm.

Hamilton didn’t sleep like this, before when they used to share a bed. It probably has to do with the fact that Hamilton has grown used to sharing a bed with his wife. A habit over many years.

The blanket has slipped off Hamilton’s shoulder. Aaron figures that Hamilton might be chilled, so he pulls it back over him. Tucks him in. Counts his freckles again to make sure they’re still there.

Aaron nods off again, his head resting against Hamilton’s. He’s asleep before he can decide if he should move away or not.

 

* * *

 

Aaron has a letter from Van Ness waiting for him in the morning.

 

> _I have reason to believe that Hamilton might be traveling to visit you, so be prepared—_

Van Ness is a few days too late with this intel. Great help.

 

* * *

 

It’s the final day of the Chase impeachment trial. Hamilton leaves with him in the morning without being invited, but Aaron doesn’t stop him. His only direction is for Hamilton to sit in the back and, “Don’t make a scene, act as though you aren’t even here.” Hamilton rolls his eyes and says, “You think they aren’t going to notice me?” because they get a lot of attention when they walk in together. Hamilton hasn’t spent much time in the capitol since he was ousted out by Adams, and the fact that he’s there with Aaron makes it even more unorthodox. But Hamilton holds his head high with an attitude that he’s rightfully there — he fits in as though he never left.

The chamber is jam-packed; Hamilton isn’t the only one there who technically shouldn’t be. Chase is visibly nervous, and the relations between the Jeffersonian Democratic-Republicans and Federalists are only getting worse. The Jeffersonians are accused of wanting to destroy the Supreme Court by using Chase as a scapegoat, and it is said that the liberty of citizens is in danger if they are to continue. Aaron is almost certain that Hamilton had whispered it to someone to say on the floor. He doesn’t disagree.

Regardless, the tribunal calls for a vote. Aaron announces it, saying loudly enough to carry though the room, “You have heard the evidence and arguments adduced on the trial of Samuel Chase, impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors. You will now proceed to pronounce distinctly your judgment on each article of impeachment.” The senators are polled, each one asked if they consider Chase _guilty_ or _not guilty,_ a rather simple process after weeks of debate and arguments.

The room is quiet when Aaron is handed the results. He looks over the tallies, counts them again even though they’re already totaled.

Aaron looks up, finds Hamilton in the crowd. Hamilton gives him a thumbs up.

This is the moment.

“Samuel Chase Esquire,” Aaron says, “stands acquitted of all the articles exhibited by the House of Representatives against him.”

The room goes into chaos. Aaron stands at his seat, unsure what to do — his job is over.

Lost, Aaron looks to Hamilton, and then breathes a sigh of relief. Hamilton is Aaron’s anchor — Hamilton smiles grimly, nods towards the door, and then looks back at him questioningly.

Nobody notices when Aaron rushes past, leaving the room with Hamilton.

They have to stop their rush when they get to the front steps so Hamilton can catch his breath, and admittedly, Aaron need to also — he isn’t as young as he used to be, and the adrenaline is getting to him. His heart pounds in his chest, and Hamilton leans heavily onto his cane and holds onto Aaron’s arm with his other hand.

“That,” Hamilton says between breaths, “was awesome!”

“Suspiciously dashing through the Capitol building?” Aaron asks.

Hamilton laughs. “Well, that too,” he says, but then shakes his head. “What I meant was — do you realize what just happened? What you did in there?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Aaron says. “My job was to keep the peace and then declare the verdict.”

“Burr,” Hamilton says, short. His hand falls from Aaron, and runs a hand through his hair, and then sighs. “But you _did_ do something _._ You were part of something, and you did it properly. You gave government and liberty a chance. You blocked Jefferson’s attempt to ruin the Court, and stopped his party’s radicalism! You set a precedent that I know will be followed for a very long time. You helped decide what the judiciary _is,_ established judiciary independence, and protected the ideals of the Constitution. You…” He trails off, like he can’t decide where to go with it next, but he ends up saying, “I’m proud of you,” his voice cracking a little, and he’s flushed and he can’t stop smiling.

Aaron never would’ve expected this. He isn’t sure how to take it — he wants to reject it, he doesn’t need Hamilton’s approval, but then…he realizes that it’s residual bitterness. He keeps reminding himself it’s okay.

“Thanks,” Aaron says, and it feels _good_ to mean it. Hamilton is right — finally, a positive in the blight that has become his political career.

It’s short lived, however.

“Jefferson is going to be inaugurated as President again in two days. And then he has four years to keep trying to make things as he wants them,” Aaron says, because while he might have won the battle, Jefferson is winning the war.

Hamilton shrugs. “Diplomacy is a long game. We’ll deal with that later,” Hamilton says, so assured and matter-of-fact that Aaron has to believe him.

“But for now, let’s blow this joint.” Hamilton wraps his arm around Aaron, squeezes him, claps his shoulder, and Aaron can’t help but lean into it and agree when Hamilton continues with, “and tonight, we celebrate.”

 

* * *

 

“Diplomacy is a long game,” Aaron says, repeating Hamilton’s words from earlier in the day. He kept it close, waiting until they were away from the D.C. tavern and in the privacy of his home, where they can talk without the worry of being overheard.

Hamilton sets his drink down and sighs, like he knew it had been coming, that now they have to _discuss._

“Yes,” Hamilton says, “I’ve always known this, that’s why I left my home, came to America. But there was another long game between you and me, one we’ve already started years ago, before we even knew about it.”

“When did you become aware of it?”

“Somewhere around the time that I was on your doorstep begging for your help and you said _no,_ ” Hamilton says, and there’s a bitterness there that suggests that he’s still resentful about it. Aaron often thinks of that, of how his life would have been different if he had said _yes_ and wrote the Federalist Papers with Hamilton. Maybe they would never have fallen apart. Or maybe, Aaron would have shot him sooner.

“It doesn’t matter, though,” Hamilton says, interrupting Aaron’s thoughts, “We’re on the same side now. We’re stronger together.”

Aaron’s chest is tight. “So your pamphlet about _us_ was another step in this long-term game?”

Hamilton nods. “First, we had to establish our domestic tranquility,” he says, grinning at his own cleverness. “It has to appear plausible that we actually, you know, like each other enough to run a campaign together. I made sure it was far enough in advance so when we _do_ start our other plans, it’ll be natural progression. Get all the pieces in line, so to speak, and make it easier for us.”

Aaron expects that Hamilton has the next four years planned out perfectly.

“Do you know what else could have made it easier for us?” Aaron asks, and then continues before Hamilton can respond, “Me being Governor of New York. Which I would be if you hadn’t prevented me from it.”

“You lost the gubernatorial by an eight thousand vote margin,” Hamilton replies, dryly. “I didn’t have _that_ much influence.”

Aaron sighs. At the time, it had been easier to blame Hamilton for all his failures.

Hamilton reaches forward and pats Aaron’s hand, says, “Hey, don’t fret. It’s better this way. Clean slate, right?”

Aaron looks down at where Hamilton’s hand covers his. Hamilton has a freckle on one of his fingers, he notices.

“I guess so,” Aaron says. What other choice do they have?

“It’s perfect, I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before,” Hamilton says, and too soon he pulls his hand away from Aaron’s. Hamilton gestures between the two of them, says, “With our combined geniuses, my charisma — which is something that the Federalist candidates have been lacking — and your meticulousness, we’re a winning combination.”

Aaron sees a future of him trying to corral Hamilton from destruction. But on the other side, he sees a future of Hamilton encouraging him to do things he’d normally refrain from.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Aaron asks. “For the two of us to overcome the Democratic-Republican reign of the government?”

“We’ve defeated an impossible power once before, and the British far outnumber the Democratic-Republicans.”

“I know it’s been a while, but I don’t think you could forget that we had guns to overturn the British,” Aaron says. Hamilton rolls his eyes, and mumbles something about how Aaron is missing the point, and he could have reasoned it out with the British if Washington had given him the chance.

“Regardless,” Hamilton says, “I know it to be possible. Someone said to me a while back that I could have fornicated with every woman in the city, and I still would be able to regain my good standing in government.”

“There are a lot of women in New York. You wouldn’t have time to do anything else,” Aaron quips, making Hamilton laugh like mad. It’s true, though — Hamilton’s adultery is all but forgotten. Aaron thinks of it sometimes, of Hamilton and that woman. Aaron wonders if Hamilton was gentle and passionate, or if he was rough and quick, taking only pleasure for himself. If Hamilton lingered in bed afterward, and wrapped his arm around her to pull her close to him, if he warmed his feet against her.

Aaron clears his throat, says, “Anyway.” The tone changes back to serious.

“I need to know how far you’ll go,” Hamilton says. “Will you stay to the end, no matter what happens?”

“I promise,” Aaron says, and this time he is the one to put his hand over Hamilton’s. Hamilton doesn’t pull away, but watches Aaron with interest as he speaks. Aaron says the words without thought, as they are true, “Even though we haven’t always agreed, we understand each other. And I realized that if don’t think you can win a battle of ideas, then maybe you need to rethink if you’re on the right side.”

Hamilton’s face is unreadable. “I’m trying to decide why you’re so invested. What do you gain? I become President and you…?”

“A chance to start over,” Aaron says. “It’s a chance for both of us to start over.”

Hamilton makes a humming noise. “So, what? You’d be my Vice President?”

“Fuck, no.” Aaron rubs his temples. “I don’t think I could endure that again,” he says, although he realizes that it would be different than with Jefferson. But it’s just the _idea_ of it that makes him sick.

“No worries. You have time to decide,” Hamilton says, and he pats Aaron’s hand that’s on top of his other hand. For a moment, Hamilton holds Aaron's hand between the two of his. Aaron feels like he should say something like, _thank you,_ or, _why are you holding my hand?_ or, _why do you want me?_ but he’s afraid that’ll lead to one answer, and then another question, and another, and then something else—

“I have to give an address to the Senate tomorrow,” Aaron says, abruptly. He stands, his hand slipping from Hamilton’s. Flexes it, releases, repeats. “I need to sleep.”

Hamilton blinks up at him. “Oh. Okay,” he says. He’s looking at Aaron like he wants to say something, but then he shrugs and hefts himself out of the chair. “C’mon. Let’s make sure you get your beauty sleep for your last day in office.”

Aaron follows Hamilton, listening to the _clack_ of Hamilton’s cane while he goes over the conversation in his head and thinking of what these progressions mean for the two of them, when Theo cracks open her door as they pass her room. Hamilton bows his head to her and then continues on, giving the Burrs privacy.

“Why are you awake?” Aaron asks when it’s just the two of them.

The candle Theo is holding illuminates her smile. “I heard you and mister Hamilton talking.” She opens the door wider, leans against the doorframe. “It was quite an interesting conversation.”

Aaron cringes. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know that you and Alexander Hamilton are planning a scheme to make him President,” she says, “and that you’re going to have a place in government, too.”

In a way, it’s a relief that Theo knows. It’s been difficult hiding the secret from her, because he doesn’t have secrets with her. He doesn’t _like_ keeping secrets from her. He probably _over shares_ with her. The only reason why he didn’t tell her this is because he wasn’t sure how she’d react, and he couldn’t handle her disappointment if she thought that he’s probably making another huge mistake. He speaks to the floor, asking, “And what do you think?” and then nervously looks up at her.

“I wish you would’ve told me yourself instead of letting me finding out by accident,” Theo says, scolding, and Aaron nods because yes, she’s right. But then Theo smiles brilliantly, reminiscent of how her mother used to, and says, “But I think it’s a great idea. You should know by now that I’ll always support you, Papa.”

The heaviness in Aaron’s heart lightens. “As long as you support me, that’s all that matters,” he says, and he leans in to kiss Theo on the cheek. He catches Theo rolling her eyes at him, but she’s smiling.

“You have other duties first. Go to bed,” she says, and shoos him away. Aaron wishes to talk to her all night, tell her everything that he and Hamilton have discussed, and see if she has any ideas, but she shuts the door in his face.

When Aaron gets to his bedroom, Hamilton is already in his nightclothes, curled up in bed and facing away from him. Hamilton doesn’t say anything and there’s no way that he’s asleep that fast, but Aaron doesn’t want to provoke him to conversation, lest they both be awake all night. He changes quickly, crawls into bed, tugs his share of the blanket away from Hamilton.

Aaron feels the warmth of Hamilton’s body, hears his deep near-sleep breaths. He’s very aware of Hamilton next to him, and it takes everything within him to not roll closer to Hamilton and wrap his arm around him — because why not? They are going end up together, anyway.

But that wasn’t _intentional._

“I can _hear_ you thinking,” Hamilton mumbles. He puts his cold foot against Aaron’s ankle, pulling it back when Aaron curses at him. “Relax. It’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Aaron isn’t worried about it, but he’ll let Hamilton think that’s the reason why he’s so apprehensive. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

“Goodnight, Burr.”

 

* * *

 

Aaron isn’t surprised when he wakes up with Hamilton snuggled close to him. Again. It’s morning — around six, judging by the way the sunlight streams through the window — and Hamilton is still asleep, head more on Aaron’s pillow than his own, and dangerously close to drooling on Aaron’s shoulder.

His bladder kind of wants him to get up, but he can’t remove himself from Hamilton’s hold and he’s actually extremely cozy, so he stays in bed for now.

He sighs, thinking of the dreadful task he has to do today. A farewell address to the Senate. He hasn’t given much thought about what he’s going to say because he’s been too occupied with the trial and Hamilton’s arrival. He’s tempted to go up there and be like, “ _bye, fuckers,”_ complete with kicking over his chair before leaving the Senate for the final time. It would be concise, and properly expressive of his feelings for all of them. Everyone will be glad that they no longer have to deal with Aaron anymore. Aaron could abscond from D.C. and not even give the address, and they would not care. But, just for that reason, Aaron _will_ give a speech. He’ll make them listen to him one last time.

Hamilton mumbles something in his sleep, like he’s agreeing with Aaron’s plan. Aaron looks down, and Hamilton definitely got drool on Aaron’s shirtsleeve. Ugh.

But he has the realization that he can’t be too annoyed with Hamilton because, well. Hamilton is _cute._ Too damned adorable for his own good. It’s not weird to think it because it’s true, and Hamilton knows it too — he always smiles because he knows Aaron likes his smile, ever since they were young, he knows that he can smile and Aaron will let him do whatever it is he wants. If Hamilton had smiled at him at Weehawken instead of scowling at him, Aaron probably would have called the whole thing off. That was their problem, they should have smiled more _and_ talked more — or at least, talked about what mattered.

Goddamn Hamilton, honestly. Aaron is angry with himself for lying there thinking about how cute Hamilton is, because that’s definitely something he shouldn’t be thinking about, but he can’t help it because Hamilton is right _there_ and making him wonder things like if Hamilton’s lips are as soft as they look and—

Hamilton stirs, and Aaron quickly shuts his eyes and feigns sleep. Tries to keep his breathing slow and even to not give himself away.

Aaron feels Hamilton shift next to him as he wakes up, wrapping his arm tighter around Aaron for a moment before he mutters, “dammit,” presumably realizing he crossed the invisible boundaries of the bed. He sighs, blowing in Aaron’s face and then Aaron feels Hamilton pulling away slowly, like he’s being extra careful not to wake Aaron. It’s considerate of him, especially when Aaron recalls when they used to be bedfellows before — Hamilton would either refuse to wake up when Aaron told him to, or Hamilton wouldn’t sleep all night long and would wake Aaron up every couple hours.

Hamilton’s joints pop when he gets up, and Aaron feels immense satisfaction because his do too in the morning. Aaron peeks to see what Hamilton is doing — Hamilton’s back is to him, so he watches as Hamilton strips off his nightshirt, leaving his back completely bare. Aaron’s eyes travel up the long line of Hamilton’s shapely legs up to his ass, and he understands why all the ladies were— _are_ attracted to him, he really does, especially when Hamilton turns slightly and Aaron catches a glimpse of Hamilton’s half-hard dick.

Holy fuck.

Aaron squeezes his eyes shut because he had looked for a moment too long, his gut twinging with what he classifies as guilt or shame, maybe second-hand embarrassment for Hamilton. It’s normal to wake up, uh, stimulated in the morning — for instance, Aaron realizes he feels himself stirring down there — but he saw Hamilton because he was being too voyeuristic and it's his fault that he has the wrong wrong wrong thought _so his ego matches his size_ , so he doesn’t move doesn’t think doesn’t do anything until Hamilton gently closes the door behind him a few minutes later.

“Shit,” Aaron says to the empty room.

 

* * *

 

Aaron jerks off in bed thinking of nothing in particular, then washes up and changes, greets Hamilton at breakfast. Hamilton looks up from his paper, says, “Yo,” and goes back to sipping coffee and reading the finance section. Aaron does not look to see if Hamilton’s breeches are too tight.

Aaron makes breakfast for both of them because apparently Hamilton doesn’t know how. Hamilton mutters a _thanks_ , and wordlessly hands over the sections of the paper he’s finished reading. Hamilton had dog-eared the pages that contain articles he found interesting, and they discuss them and it’s all very pleasant.

It’s only weird if he makes it weird.

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to do fine.”

“No I’m not. I’m going to throw up,” Aaron says. It’s an exaggeration, but he is nervous, which he wasn’t until he and Hamilton were done packing up the things in his office that he’s taking with him, and there were no more excuses to put off the address. He doesn’t think something bad will happen, it’s not like it can get any worse — actually, scratch that, because things can always, _always_ get worse. But what he’s nervous about is that this one act will represent his term. If he can end on a good note, then he won’t be remembered as a total failure.

Hamilton gives him a pointed look, like _stop being so dramatic_ , and doesn’t step away from him. Hamilton fixes Aaron’s clothes, straightening the lapels of his coat and fluffing the ruffles of his shirt.

“Hush. Now, where’s that legendary Aaron Burr equanimity?” Hamilton says, and then he bops Aaron on the nose and says, “There it is.”

Aaron’s words get caught in his throat. Not very debonair at all.

Hamilton smiles brilliantly. “Knock ‘em dead.”

 

* * *

 

“I confess that at times I must’ve wounded the feelings of individual members,” Aaron begins, and he’s started, and that’s always the worst part.

Everyone in the room is looking at him, but the only person whom he focuses on is Hamilton. Hamilton is there, even though he shouldn’t be — it’s a closed-door executive session, but nobody said anything when he took a seat near the front, and nobody is going to tell him to leave.

Hamilton is there, like he always is — Aaron can depend on that.

Once Aaron starts talking, he can’t stop, he explains why he didn’t engage in explanations to defend himself because the Senate isn’t the place to deal with personal matters and it would have tarnished the reputation of his position to have done so, not to mention how it would have further divided bipartisanism. Nothing he could have said would have made it better, he knows this. But it doesn’t matter what he did, or what he didn’t do — it’s about the legacy he leaves behind, in hopes that he helped make the nation a better place, something that he and all his comrades fought and bled and died for.

He says, “I challenge your attention to considerations more momentous than any which regard merely your personal honor and character, or mine — the preservation of law, of liberty, and the constitution.” He looks to Hamilton when he says it, and it’s like he’s saying it to him and him alone. A seduction, of sorts. It’s what he knows Hamilton wants to hear, but the words are for himself, too. He _believes_ in them, and that’s what he wants Hamilton to know, that’s what he’s trying to communicate.

Unspoken, he says, _This is what we could do, you and me._

Unspoken, Hamilton says to him, _I know._

He says, aloud for all to hear, “The House, I need not remind you, is a sanctuary, a citadel of law, of order, and of liberty. It is here — it is here, in this exalted refuge, here if anywhere, will resistance be made to the storms of political frenzy, and the silent arts of corruption. And if the Constitution be destined ever to perish by the sacrilegious hands of the demagogue or the usurper, its expiring agonies will be witnessed on this very floor.”

He says, “We’re stronger together,” and judging by the pensive way Hamilton looks, Hamilton understands the personal message.

And then — Aaron gives his thanks, and then leaves the floor, leaving behind the once-was promise of his career, and onto the promise of something _better_.

And Hamilton follows right behind him.

 

* * *

 

“I think I blacked out,” Aaron says, later, when he’s had time to process what transpired. “It just…happened.”

Hamilton smiles at him, elated. “It definitely happened. You supported the Constitution, and then you totally dragged everyone — in that polite, subtle way that you specialize in — for using you as a target for partisan attacks.”

“Oh my God.”

“It was beautiful, Burr,” Hamilton says, as he tops off both of their glasses. Whiskey, neat. Only the best stuff for them. “I think you actually made some people _cry,_ it was so moving.”

“If there was crying, they were tears of joy at seeing me leave,” Aaron grumbles.

Hamilton slams his glass on to the table, jarring it and spilling some of the liquor onto his hand. “You’re wrong. Mitchill was definitely dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief, and Smith had to lay his head down he was so overcome with emotion. Shit, _I_ almost fell out of my chair hearing you say those things. It really resonated, man. Stuff that our young Republic stands for.”

Just then Hamilton seems to notice the spilt whiskey, and he licks it off his hand with a broad stroke of his tongue before it can stain his cuff. Aaron stares, and he has that funny feeling again.

“You’re an animal,” he says, and Hamilton laughs and replies, “Yeah, so?” and then they’re both laughing for no reason really except that they’re drunk and everything is ridiculous.

“But Burr, seriously. Burr,” Hamilton says, in that tone that drunk people do, like _hey listen,_ and he has to work extra hard to get out each syllable. Aaron focuses on him. Hamilton’s eyes are blown wide and glassy, and he leans in slightly and he holds onto Aaron’s arm, like he’s making sure Aaron is paying attention to him.

Hamilton slurs out, “It was good. Like, let yourself have something good. Good things can happen to you. Be…good.” He keeps saying _good,_ his eloquence on hiatus when inebriated. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “You know what I mean?”

Aaron shrugs, and takes away the bottle when Hamilton reaches for it again. “I don’t know what, uh, good it’ll do,” Aaron says. “I don’t know what’s next.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I kind of gave up everything and burned all my bridges.”

“There’s at least one bridge left,” Hamilton says, and points his finger between the two of them. “As they say, a city always starts with one bridge.”

“You made that up.”

Hamilton looks very serious for a moment, but then his face breaks into uncontainable smile and he actually _giggles_. “Yeah, I bullshitted that, you got me,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is, it’ll be fine, even if it sucks. Trust me. If something was easy, then it wouldn’t matter how it ends.”

Aaron considers it. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it actually makes perfect sense.

“But I have a business proposition for you that could solve your problem,” Hamilton says. “Come work with me.”

That does not make sense.

“Me?” Aaron asks, incredulous, but there’s nobody else who Hamilton could have meant. “Why?”

Hamilton hitches his shoulder up, sticks out his pouty lip, he averts his eyes from Aaron’s questioning gaze. “I don’t know?” Hamilton says, and it manages to sound like a question, which doesn’t make Aaron feel too confident. He continues, “I could use some help at my office, and you need a job, so…?” He looks back up at Aaron, giving him a hopeful smile that restores Aaron’s confidence. “We could call it _Hamilton and Burr_.”

“Shouldn’t my name be first?” Aaron asks. “Alphabetically?”

“The name is non-negotiable. I’m the one taking you on, after all.” Hamilton scoots his chair closer, making a _scrape scrape scrape_ on the floor until he’s on the same side of the table as Aaron. He leans in, close enough that Aaron can smell his whiskey breath, says, “We could be co-counsels again.”

Aaron has risked a lot more for a lot less over Hamilton.

“Okay then, partner,” Aaron says, and picks up his glass and nods to Hamilton’s. Hamilton takes his, clinks it against Aaron’s.

“Cheers.”

 

* * *

 

Hamilton wakes Aaron up the next morning. His whiny voice is worse to wake up to than him drooling on his shirt.

“Burr, _c’mon_ , we’re going to miss the inauguration,” Hamilton says, shaking Aaron’s shoulder.

“We weren’t invited. Nobody wants us there,” Aaron mutters, which he’s perfectly content with, and wraps the blankets tighter around himself as he tries to sleep away the hangover from the previous night. He wants to enjoy the first day of his new, less burdened life. Some other fool has his old job and he’s just about relaxed again when Hamilton yanks the blanket off of him.

“That’s exactly why we _have_ to be there,” Hamilton says. No, he’s shouting. He’s shouting and stomping his foot and trying to drag Aaron about of bed and—

 

* * *

 

That’s how they end up crashing the inauguration party.

It’s kind of disappointing when it isn’t as difficult as Aaron thought it’d be. Nobody notices them standing to the side in the audience at the inaugural speech, because they’re too fixated on Jefferson on the platform in front of them. For as boisterous as Jefferson can be, he’s an awful public speaker — the majority of his ten-minute awkwardly given speech is inaudible.

“Act like you belong,” Hamilton whispers to Aaron as they walk into the hall of the Presidential Mansion for the party. Aaron figures that advice is how Hamilton has got through most of his life. Assert yourself somewhere so firmly that nobody will dare say no.

It works, yet again. Nobody says anything, but they get quite a few disapproving glares. When people notice him and Hamilton, they look away quickly. The shame of the Capitol. Aaron frowns, and starts wondering when is the earliest they can leave without seeming rude or avoidant.

Hamilton nudges him. “Cheer up, buttercup,” Hamilton says, and he doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. In fact, he’s doing what could be classified as _strutting_ — his chest puffed out proudly, his head held high, a sharp grin.

“This is like I’m a jilted groom seeing my bride marry someone else,” Aaron says. He stares across the room as important people talk to other important people.

 _It isn’t worth it,_ he reminds himself. _Wait for it._

“You need a drink,” Hamilton declares, and then he goes off in search of drinks, muttering _melodramatic idiot_ just loudly enough so that Aaron can hear.

Aaron occupies himself with observing the people in the room. It’s crowded enough that he loses Hamilton in the crowd. The Federalists stand off in the corner, the small number of them sticking together. Democratic-Republicans are everywhere he looks. Martha Washington is absent, which is not a surprise ( _she despises Jefferson,_ Hamilton told him when Aaron asked after her, _she says when Jefferson visited Mount Vernon was one of the worst days of her life, second only to her husband dying)_. John Adams is also absent — everyone knows he and Jefferson have their issues, and Adams has all but retired from politics. Madison talks with Clinton, the new Vice President, and Aaron wonders if Clinton getting the same talk that Madison gave him on his first day: _do what we say or else._ He sees everyone, except the main man himself.

“You just couldn’t get enough of me, Burr?”

He spoke too soon. Jefferson appears next to him, decked out in regal purple coat, his mouth stretched into a wide grin but his eyes in a sneer, it all amounting to the essence of being formidable because he’s too terrible to have his sovereignty questioned. He’s here to boast, one last twist of the knife. Not that Aaron will pander to it, though.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Aaron says, casual. He gestures in the vague direction where Hamilton disappeared. “Alexander and I thought this was a birthday party. Imagine our surprise.”

“Uh-huh.” Jefferson crosses his arms. “I’m happy to see that you and Hammy worked out all those pesky differences,” he says, in a tone that suggests he isn’t happy at all.

Aaron is growing tired of Hamilton being the most interesting thing about him. “Jefferson—”

“That’s _mister President_ to you,” Jefferson corrects.

Aaron will _not_ formally address Jefferson. “We don’t have to pretend to like each other anymore,” Aaron says, bluntly. “So did you have anything of purpose to say, or did you come over here to be a shrew?”

Jefferson’s mouth hangs open, taken aback. He recovers quickly, and lets out a long whistle. “Damn, you’re harsh. I was just gonna say remember all the good times, and give you an offer.”

“There were no good times,” Aaron says, “and you can’t give me anything that I’d want.”

Jefferson’s smile gets even more awful, if possible. “Are you so sure about that?” he asks, and then lowers his voice so only Aaron can hear, “If you ever change your mind about your renewed loyalty to Hamilton, maybe you and I can help each other out and ensure that he stays meaningless. You tell me what you know and…things could be good for you, instead of you being the worthless one.”

Aaron backs away from him, stricken. “Are you asking me to betray Hamilton?”

“Hey, you said it,” Jefferson says, holding out his hands, a show of innocence.

“I’d never do that to Alexander.” He’d never, ever hurt him again. No. He wouldn’t?

“I bet you never thought you’d shoot him, either.”

“Alexander is—“

“I’m what?”

Aaron had been so involved in his conversation with Jefferson, he hadn’t heard Hamilton coming back. Hamilton stands there, cane in one hand and holding two champagne flutes between his fingers with his other; one of the glasses is half-empty, Hamilton probably having drank some already. Hamilton has that clueless look that someone has when they _know_ they were being talked about, and Aaron can’t help but smile because Hamilton looks so indignant but so wonderful — Aaron knows for sure that he had been correct, he’d always pick Hamilton.

“Nothing,” Aaron says, reaching for the champagne flute that’s full. “Jefferson was just leaving.”

“I’ll _leave_ when I’m ready,” Jefferson drawls. His eyes flit back and forth between Aaron and Hamilton. “Like I was telling ex-Vice President Burr, you and he are quite the pair. Of _losers_.”

“That’s your opinion,” Hamilton says, nonchalant, but Aaron knows him well enough to know that he’s irked. Hamilton downs the rest of his drink in one go. Aaron sips his to be doing something.

“Heathens, the pair of you,” Jefferson says. “An embarrassment to this nation.”

“ _Opinion,_ ” Hamilton says, louder this time. He snatches Aaron’s glass, drinks down the rest of the champagne.

Jefferson presses forward, “A pair of low-class cowards who thought that settling their problems with guns instead of words was a good idea. I don’t know what the use was, though. Neither of y’all’s honor is worth protecting.” He lets out a single _ha,_ then, “The only thing I’m glad of is that Washington is dead so he’s spared the shame.”

“Don’t you dare speak his name, you filthy slaver,” Hamilton snarls, his resolve finally snapping. Aaron is impressed that Hamilton contained himself for as long as he did. The insults cut Aaron close too, but he puts a hand on Hamilton’s chest to rein him in, says, “It isn’t worth it, Alexander.”

And to his surprise, Hamilton obeys. He grumbles a few choice swears under his breath, but he relents, takes a step away from Jefferson and says, “Fine, okay. You’re right.”

Jefferson looks to those around him, like _are you seeing this shit_? Their disturbance has gathered some attention. Madison appears at Jefferson’s side, tries to tell Jefferson something, but Jefferson waves him off and composes himself, tugging at his coat, his usual chill aplomb ruffled.

“Down boy. Be good and listen to Burr,” Jefferson says with a smirk. He turns, and says to Madison, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “See? I told you Burr is a coward.”

Not worth it not worth it not worth it—

“I’m _not_ a coward!”

For a moment, Aaron thinks that Hamilton is the one who shouted, but then he turns to Hamilton and sees how Hamilton is gaping at him with wide-eyed shock and his mouth upturned slightly into a grin, and that’s when Aaron feels his own throat raw from use and wrath burning his insides — he suspects it was roused from the anger that radiates off of Hamilton like an out-of-control fire.

Hamilton, realizing that he has to be the sensible one for once, tugs at Aaron’s arm, says, “Let’s go, Burr,” but Aaron shrugs his touch away because he’ll be damned if he misses this shot — he has nothing left, after all.

“I’ve accounted for all my mistakes, I admit that I’m a fuck up! But at least I know it, while you act as if yours don’t exist,” Aaron says, and it feels _fantastic_ to finally let out this anger that’s been building for years. He has a little understanding of why Hamilton loves verbally thrashing people — there’s a sadistic thrill in tearing someone down in the worst way possible. “Just because you don’t acknowledge your problems doesn't mean they go away, but then I guess that’s what paying people off is for. Convince people to do as you want and you can continue to be everyone’s favorite, get laws passed that you want, get rid of people who don’t agree with you—”

“That’s enough,” Jefferson interjects. There’s a warning explicit in his voice: _watch out._

“No! You can’t force me into compliance anymore” Aaron says, and there’s a flicker of realization in Jefferson’s eyes when he realizes that he doesn’t scare Aaron. It’s wonderful, and Aaron could leave it there but he doesn’t—

“Fuck you, you bourgeois llama!”

Next to him, Hamilton laughs and claps him on the back. “Nice.” Hamilton is supposed to be stopping him from this madness. There’s no hope now.

“Pompous Francophile who can’t even speak proper French! You’d ruin this country if you had your way, and nobody stops you because they’re so far up your ass with hero worship. If they only knew...” Aaron takes a deep breath. There’s so much he can say, but it won’t do any good. He’s not creditable. There’s only a few who have any respect for him.

Hamilton puts a hand on his shoulder, softly says his name. Hamilton is one of the few. He believes in him.

Aaron is shaking, he didn’t notice until Hamilton started touching him gently.

“You’re the coward,” Aaron says to Jefferson. “You’re a _vile_ human being, Thomas Jefferson, and you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Jefferson takes a step closer, asks, “Is that a threat, Burr?”

“I won’t be the one to—”

“ _Burr_ ,” Hamilton says, almost begging, and grabs Aaron’s hand. He leans in to whisper to Aaron, “I admire your sudden bravado, but there are some times that you need to leave an argument. Like right now. Trust me, I’m an expert.”

He doesn’t have to listen to Hamilton, either.

Hamilton drags Aaron away by the hand as fast as he can in his condition, pushing through the crowd, and Aaron has no choice other than be pulled along.

But he’s sure to get the last word.

“Feel free to take any of this personally!” Aaron shouts.

“Goddamn it, Burr,” Hamilton huffs. He struggles to get them out the door, pushes at congressmen who stand in their way. “Don’t be so fucking difficult. This is payback at me, isn’t it?”

One last jibe—

“And your macaroni sucks!”

 

* * *

 

“You’re insane,” Hamilton says once they’ve locked themselves inside Aaron’s office, which Aaron supposes isn’t really his office anymore.

Aaron rests against (not) his desk, runs a hand over his head, lets out a long sigh. He can’t seem to calm his nerves — he’s running too high. “Yeah, I can’t believe I did that.” The previous half hour feels like an out of body experience. Something impossible, something wild.

Something that Hamilton would do.

Hamilton comes up to him, saunters really, until he’s in front of him. “It was perfect,” Hamilton says, admiring. “You’re perfect.”

It’s hard to look at Hamilton when he’s like that — his smile ecstatic, like he really thinks that, that Aaron is perfect.

“Alexander,” Aaron says, each syllable punctuated on his tongue, saying Hamilton’s name like a prayer. Or a curse. Aaron doesn’t know which. But Hamilton is there with his damnable smile that eases Aaron’s worries and it’s perfect.

“You’re free,” Hamilton says. “What’s next?”

“I thought I’d practice law with some guy.” Aaron smiles. “He’s kind of a big deal. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. His name is Hamilton.”

“Oh yeah?” and Hamilton tilts his head, he sees the game in this. Cute.

“Alexander,” Aaron says again, and Hamilton closes the distance between them, Aaron letting out a sharp exhale when Hamilton lays a hand on his chest.

“This Hamilton person should be careful.” Hamilton licks his lips, looks up at Aaron with heavy-lidded eyes, and _god_ he’s beautiful. “You’re a dangerous man.”

Aaron _takes._

Hamilton’s lips are as soft as they look, Aaron discovers.

With a rush of a breath, Aaron leans in and presses his lips to Hamilton’s. Aaron thinks that maybe they were both were going for it, _hopes_ they were because then it wouldn’t be just him — Hamilton gasps against Aaron’s mouth and his body goes tense but he doesn’t pull away — that’s the important part — and then Hamilton relaxes against him and Aaron feels Hamilton’s lips part against his ever so slightly. Hamilton clutches at Aaron’s coat as he kisses him back, and there’s a thousand thoughts running through Aaron’s mind like _this is wrong_ and _Alexander is married_ and _Alexander is a man_ but also _this is perfect,_ perfect like how Aaron has to slightly tilt his head up to make their lips meet because Hamilton has a couple inches on him but they’re close enough to a perfect and equal fit, or how the scrape of Hamilton’s beard against his skin makes him shudder in a _good_ way that sends a shock down his spine, or how Hamilton tastes like the champagne he had been drinking, or how Hamilton kisses with his eyes closed, or how the curve of Hamilton’s hip feels perfect against his hand when he rests it there, or how Hamilton makes a gorgeous whimper when Aaron licks at his bottom lip for more. It’s perfect, and just when he realizes that this is what the months of tension between them has been leading to and that it had been _so_ worth the wait, it’s over.

Hamilton pulls away, breathing hard. His lips were only on Aaron’s long enough to miss them when they’re gone.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, soft, and he turns his head away so he won’t be tempted to kiss Hamilton again. He glances around the room as if someone could have seen them, but they’re alone. Only they know.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hamilton says, just as softly, and he whispers Aaron’s name sweetly until Aaron looks back at him, “ _Burr_.” Hamilton is right _there_ , his face flushed, close enough to kiss. “I’m sorry too,” Hamilton says and yes, he’s just as guilty as Aaron in this, he kissed him back. Aaron won’t forget that.

Hamilton is still clutching Aaron’s jacket, but then he lets it go, smooths out the wrinkles. “I just— I miss Eliza and—”

“Of course.” Aaron clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to…you know,” he says.   _I didn’t mean to kiss you_ , he thinks — just like how he didn’t mean to shoot him. Hamilton makes him do ridiculous things. Hamilton is so — so _everything_ and Aaron craves more, but he can’t have it and that makes him want it more.

Once again, Aaron must reckon with the effects of Hamilton’s life on his. Hamilton will be the end of him, one way or another.

“No worries,” Hamilton says, his eyes crinkled up into a smile. “Let’s, um. Yeah,” and then he steps away to fiddle with books on Aaron’s desk that he’s taking with him back to New York.

Aaron has done the impossible: render Hamilton speechless. Aaron would feel more proud if it weren’t a time he wished Hamilton _would_ say something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it only took 63k words but they finally kissed, I know
> 
>  **research!**  
>  – [All about Burr's years in office](http://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/resources/pdf/aaron_burr.pdf); about the Chase trial, Burr's senate decisions, Burr lost the governorship by 8k votes, how Burr got mad about people eating cake (seriously), about the debate over Burr having franking privilege (aka having free mail) because people though that Burr would abuse it, people crying over Burr's farewell address  
> – [Jefferson did speak so quietly that nobody heard his address](https://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/public-speaking)  
> – [Burr's farewell address](http://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/minute/Indicted_Vice_President_Bids_Senate_Farewell.htm); most of the quotes are directly pulled from reality  
> – [Martha's second worst day was when Jefferson came to visit](http://www.mountvernon.org/digital-encyclopedia/article/thomas-jefferson/)  
> – [Jefferson's political blunders](https://mises.org/library/jefferson-president-his-judicial-blunders)  
> – read parts of [Ham's pamphlet about Adams](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-25-02-0110-0002) for his writing style like okay the guy would NOT CHILL WITH THE COMMAS  
> – [he has a mouth that worries you and once you knew him it worried you more](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/642309-the-mouth-worried-you-until-you-knew-him-and-then) quote is based off something Hemmingway said about F. Scott Fitzgerald. I always thought it was very Hamilton.  
> – credit to videogamedoc87 for calling Hamilton a "plonk" aka the best description of Hamilton ever.


	10. Alexander V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander had resolved to not mention it again, but Burr is making it a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the rating has been increased to E, for reasons.
> 
> Thanks to videogamedoc87 for being a champ and reading over this for me and offering suggestions! Also many thanks to wingedsaboteur @ tumblr for reading over the last chapter and fixing my typos, yikes @ me.
> 
> I'm happy that y'all are still liking the slow burn. Thank you for being here.

“Let’s go home,” Alexander says to Burr the next day, _after,_ because this is not their home. It’s not where they belong right now. He recalls something similar, _after the war I went back to New York—_

“Fine,” Burr says, defeated. “There’s nothing left for me here, anyway.”

And without further ado, they pack up and leave D.C. the next day.

Burr is in an awful mood, but Alexander doesn’t bother him. He lets Burr be…Burr. Alexander is sure that Burr is grumpy because he has to retreat from the embarrassment of his political career, especially after making a fool out of himself in front of everyone. Theo keeps asking if Burr is okay, and Burr replies a snappy passive aggressive, “I’m _great_ ,” in a tone that indicates that he’s anything but.

However…there’s more to Burr’s pissy attitude than Burr’s pride being wounded — that’s nothing new for Burr. There’s a new tension between him and Alexander, and Alexander doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out _why._

Burr hasn’t said much, since then. _Then,_ when he kissed Alexander and like an idiot, Alexander kissed him back.

It’s one of the top two mistakes that they’ve made. Alexander can’t decide if this, or their duel is worse. At least with this, all he’s left with is the lingering feeling of Burr’s lips on his instead of a hole in his side.

Alexander had resolved to not mention it again, but Burr is making it a _problem._ It’s a step backwards in their progress, to where Burr outright avoids being alone in the same room with him. Burr didn’t share the bed last night — he had made the excuse of having work to do. Alexander knew it was bullshit but he didn’t want to make a _problem_ of it so he had curled up in Burr’s bed alone for a restless night of sleep, and in the morning he found Burr passed out on the couch, dressed in the clothes he wore the day before.

So, it’s officially a problem (not that it ever wasn’t). They have to talk about it — everything can’t go to hell again because of miscommunication. They’ve came so far, and just when Alexander thought they were getting somewhere…

“Burr,” Alexander pleads when he’s finally able to get Burr alone, somewhere in Middleburg. They stand next to the carriage and stretch their legs while Theo explores a bookstore. Burr doesn’t respond, he just keeps smoking his pipe which Alexander _hates_ because he’s going to be stuck with Burr in close quarters for days and he doesn’t like the smell of smoke that sticks to Burr’s clothes. Burr doesn’t acknowledge Alexander at all even though Alexander knows Burr heard him. The clenching of his jaw gives it away.

Alexander sighs. Burr has to be the most stubborn man he knows.

“ _Burr,_ ” Alexander says again, and he taps his cane against Burr’s leg. “Hey.”

“What?” Burr asks, not hiding his irritation when he looks at Alexander, blankly. He blows out a puff of smoke, the downwind blowing it in Alexander’s direction.

“Can we talk about what happened? When we were in your office?” Alexander clarifies, as if there’s any other urgent matter that he could be speaking of. “Because if you’re worried I’m going to tell someone, I’m not. I don’t kiss and tell,” he says, but then winces when Burr gives him an incredulous look because, yeah, with his track record he’s done the exact opposite of that, except it was _fuck and tell everybody._

“But this is different,” Alexander says.

“This is nothing,” Burr says, quickly. He takes a drag from his pipe, lets it out slow. “We were just…excited. We forgot ourselves for a moment.”

He doesn’t look at Alexander as he says it.

“Right,” Alexander says, slowly. “Because friends kiss—”

“ _Nothing,_ Alexander.”

Nothing. That’s what it has to be. Their heads were fuzzy from champagne and adrenaline and that’s always a dangerous combination. He and Burr are dangerous together without any extra kindling. It was nothing between them, _is_ nothing between them — nothing like how Alexander doesn’t want to kiss the corner of Burr’s frown until he can coax a smile from him, and maybe get a kiss back.

“Nothing,” Alexander repeats.

Burr’s mouth tugs into a grin, and Alexander copies it.

It’s not like he could expect anything from it anyway, so Alexander decides to let it be meaningless.

 

* * *

 

If only it could be meaningless, forgotten.

They talk less, and Burr doesn’t smile at all.

Alexander remembers when the worst thing was that Burr shot him.

He longs for that time, now. It would be less miserable than this.

 

* * *

 

Theo convinces them to stop being stupid and stop traveling before it gets too late. They check into the first unsuspicious inn they see that Burr doesn’t turn his nose up at.  When asked by the innkeeper, “A room for the lady, and one for the gentlemen?” Alexander and Burr exchange a glance.

“Sure, Alexander and I can share,” says Burr, because of course, it would be weird for them not to. It’s not like they have a _problem._

Alexander regrets it hours later when his problem is that he can’t get any damn sleep. He lies awake for hours in itchy sheets with his back to Burr, thinking of anything and everything because he doesn’t really want to sleep. Because most likely, if he sleeps he’ll end up unconsciously holding Burr again, and that had been awkward enough without their new…development.

Alexander hopes that Burr never noticed him lying close (too close, arm wrapped around him to bring closer) but he doubts it, and he _really_ hopes Burr didn’t notice his morning wood, but he doubts that too. It’s kind of a difficult thing to miss, if Alexander says so himself. Burr is acting too damn weird about it for him not to have noticed any of it. But, hey, it happens. He’s used to sharing his bed with his wife. Alexander can’t help it if he likes to _cuddle_ — that’s what Eliza says — and likes the closeness of another. He can’t help it if he’s grown comfortable lying with someone, he can’t help it if his body calls for attention in the morning, he can’t help it that he likes to be snug, he can’t help it that he reaches out at night to make sure that he isn’t alone, and he can’t help it that Burr had happened to be the closest warm body.

And he can’t help that Burr is so cozy to be next to. More than the prickly fool should be. He’s inviting enough for Alexander to have sought him out night after night and nestle close to him, to not be alone. Waking up to Burr isn’t the worst thing ever — Alexander had developed a certain fondness for studying Burr’s relaxed sleeping face before slowly untangling himself from him. The thought of Burr almost lulls Alexander to sleep — warm, strong arms, steady breaths, a large hand that rested on his hip once that Burr unconsciously put there while sleeping, how Burr smells. Nice.

Alexander has a good mind to kick Burr. Serves him right for making him miss something he shouldn’t have, and won’t ever have. But Alexander knows that it’s his own damn fault. He finds comfort in the intimacy of others too easily.

It would be easier if Burr had acknowledged Alexander clinging to him and shoved him off the bed like he’d threatened.

Alexander is so fucking tired. He’s ready to roll over and curl up with Burr even if there are adverse consequences as long as there’s the chance he can get some sleep. It’s too the point now that he’s so over-exhausted that his body and mind fights it — his eyes burning and heavy, his thoughts sluggish and fading in and out, random absurd thoughts popping in that he can’t differentiate from dreams or conscious thought.

At some point during his self-imposed wakefulness, it occurs to Alexander that it’s possible that he gave Burr the wrong idea. That maybe he gave Burr reason to think that he was coming on to him, that he _wanted_ him like that, which — fuck. He’s too tired to think of this.

He sighs, and shifts in the bed, trying to get comfortable for what feels like the hundredth time. He tenses when his toes brush against Burr’s ankle, and he knows that Burr is awake too when he hears Burr let out a grunt of surprise.

“Sorry,” Alexander mumbles, and then moves his foot back to his side of the bed.

“S’fine,” Burr replies, sleep slurred. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

Alexander realizes yet again he isn’t as young as he used to be. He isn’t able to pull an all-nighter and then travel as used to do back in the day. He figures that Burr didn’t get any sleep either, judging by how Burr takes an extra cup of coffee and is extra curmudgeonly in the morning. He responds to Alexander in short, one word answers when Alexander tries to talk to him.

It’s going to be a _joy_ to be trapped with Burr in a small, enclosed space for an entire day.

Theo sits between them in the carriage because she must pick up on the unease between her father and Alexander. Conversation is sparse and Alexander ends up dozing with his head resting against the window. He isn’t sure how long he sleeps, but it’s long enough to feel rested when a bump in the road jolts him awake.

He looks over to the Burrs — Theo is smirking at him in a way that’s reminiscent of her father, and Burr is conked out with his head resting on Theo’s shoulder. Burr is in such a deep sleep that the rocky movements don’t disturb his slumber.

Alexander sits up from his slouch, stifles a yawn. “How long have we been sleeping?”

“Several hours,” Theo says. She glances to Burr, asleep on her shoulder. “I would like to read, but he’s lying on my arm, and even though it’s quite uncomfortable I cannot bear to wake him.”

Alexander scoffs, causing Theo to give him a cross look, so he adds, “I don’t think any of my children would be so kind to let me nap on their shoulder. The middle boys will hardly allow me to hug them.”

Theo laughs. “Well, I’m all Papa has, so…” Theo’s voice trails off. Her face twists up into a pained expression that Alexander is familiar with.

“I could read to you?” Alexander offers, changing the subject before it becomes too serious. “I’m quite good at it. I can even do different voices.”

“There’s no need for theatrics, but that would be nice, thank you.”

Alexander picks up her book from where it lays on top of her bag, as Theo can’t move without waking Burr, and opens the book to the marker. Theo is more than halfway through the book already, a novel written by a woman author who he’s never heard of before. It’s rather intense, some phrases having him raise his brows, but he makes a mental note to get a copy for Angelica when he gets home.

He ends up finishing the book, and Burr sleeps through the entire thing. They’re well into Pennsylvania, Theo looking out the window and Alexander writing a letter on his lap desk, when Burr stirs awake. Alexander watches as Burr wakes up slowly, letting out an unintelligible mumble as he rubs his eyes, in a way that Alexander hates that he finds so endearing. But then it’s as though Burr remembers where he is because he snaps awake and acts as though he hadn’t just been snoring on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Did you have a good nap, sleepyhead?” Alexander asks, teasing, and Theo laughs but Burr doesn’t. Burr is still in a grumpy mood even after resting, so, fine. Let Burr be miserable about everything. Alexander is done with giving him attention for his poor attitude.

Alexander goes back to writing his letter to Eliza, which is kind of purposeless because it probably won’t get there before he does himself, but he wants to bitch about Burr. _I should have left him in Washington D.C. to suffer because now I am the one suffering, Burr blames me for everything, like the rain or overpriced beer or holes in the road,_ he writes. He doesn’t write about his other _problem_ that he has with Burr, he will never put that down in words. It’s too damnable, and he hasn’t decided how to explain it — or _if_ he’s going to tell Eliza at all.

 _I’ve missed you so much,_ Alexander writes, _the first thing I am going to do when I see you is kiss you and—_

“You’re writing to Eliza.”

Alexander looks up at Burr, who interrupted his one-sided conversation to Eliza. Burr says it matter-of-fact.

“How’d you know?” Alexander asks. He wishes he had lied, because then Burr looks at him with that smug superiority in which he thinks he knows Alexander so well.

“You’ve got that dopey grin that you get when you write to her, or talk about her,” Burr says, amused. “It’s like you can’t contain your happiness.”

Alexander hadn’t been aware that he does that, but it doesn’t surprise him. “Thoughts of my Betsey reveal my heart’s feelings. What you see in my expression is love.”

“That’s sweet,” Theo says. “How long have you been married?”

“It’ll be twenty-five years in December,” Alexander says, and then he figures he must have that love-struck face again because his heart flutters — he can hardly remember a time when he wasn’t wed to Eliza. It’s been a long time, but then not nearly long enough.

“She must mean a lot to you,” Burr says. He somehow makes it sound scathing, like he’s judging him, judging him for cheating on Eliza — but it wasn’t cheating, not this time, and Burr can fuck off because _he_ started it—

—or maybe Alexander is reading too much into it.

“She is my soul mate,” Alexander says, looking down at the letter to Eliza. “The promise of her love kept me from dying when…um.”

He coughs, an uncomfortable silence filling the carriage. Burr looks like he wants to leap out of the carriage, and Theo exasperated.

“Why don’t you tell me again about Jefferson,” Theo suggests, and Alexander is thankful she is there to mediate.

 

* * *

 

Burr doesn’t share a room with Alexander on the second night. Instead, he opts to room with Theo.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Burr says. “I have to watch over her and make sure she’s safe.”

Theo crosses her arms and scoffs, mutters, “I am a grown woman, Papa,” to which Burr says, “Exactly.”

Alexander isn’t fooled with the excuse, but, whatever alleviates his internal crisis.

“But who will protect me from the creepy Pennsylvanians?” Alexander asks, and grabs Burr’s arm. “I didn’t know they were such a threat. We can sleep in shifts. I pick Theo for my team. She’s more intimidating than you.”

Burr shakes off his hold, scowls at Alexander like he’s been doing since they left. “Protect yourself,” Burr says.

 

* * *

Alexander sleeps alone that night, but he doesn’t rest any better. He’s kept awake, wavering between guilt and worry — somewhere around four in the morning he wishes that he had never met Aaron Burr, but then he retracts that immediately. Just. It would be nice if Burr didn’t make his life so damn hard.

Deciding he isn’t going to get any sleep, he gets up and continues writing his letter to Eliza, says, _I fucked up. Again._

 

* * *

 

The first thing Alexander does when he gets home is kiss Eliza, just like he planned. Eliza didn’t know his plan because he has the letter stuffed in his pocket, so she’s halfway through her greeting, “Hello, my Alexan—” when Alexander cuts her short by pulling her into a ravenous kiss. He doesn’t even say _hello_ , just kisses her because he can’t wait.

Eliza lets out a squeak of surprise but she melts against him when he holds her around her hip and slips his tongue in against hers, kissing her deeply. He’s vaguely aware that the Burrs are still in the driveway, along with Angelica and the children, but Eliza is all he can focus on. The anxieties of the last few days disappear as Eliza sighs against him and tangles her fingers in his hair — he only wants to be kissing her. Anyone else is a distraction, and not worth it.

“Well, hello,” Eliza says when Alexander finally parts from her. Her face is flushed into a cute bright blush, and she looks away shyly for a moment before she looks back to Alexander. “What was that for?”

“I missed you,” Alexander says, and leans in to kiss her again, this time a chaste peck on the lips, and then nuzzles his scruff against her face until she giggles. “I thought of only you while I was away.”

“Charmer,” Eliza says, and playfully hits Alexander’s chest.

“That’s me,” Alexander says, and then he takes a chance and looks over his shoulder at Burr and gives him an impassive look, like _this is who I’m supposed to be kissing,_ but it kind of backfires because Burr looks so damn uncomfortable that Alexander feels bad about it.

It’s not surprising when Burr says that he and Theo must be going — any confrontation of their… _whatever_ and Burr flees. Al and Angie whine and beg Theo to visit for a while, but she leaves with her father and makes the promise to call on them once they’re settled at home.

Eliza helps Alexander up the stairs, and says, “I’m amazed that you and Burr made it back in one piece. When you said you were going to bring him home, I had doubts of your success.”

Once he steps into his house, Alexander lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Me too, honestly,” Alexander says.

Eliza shoos the kids away with Angelica, and steers Alexander up to their bedroom. She says, “I’m happy that you and Burr are amicable. It makes things easier.”

A pang shoots though his chest, more powerful than a bullet.

“I suppose,” Alexander says, and forces a smile because _nothing_ is wrong, but it is definitely not easier between him and Burr.

 

* * *

 

“If you’re going to be like this, then I’m never letting you go anywhere again,” Eliza says, voice husky, and then arches her back and lets out a throaty whine when Alexander responds with enthusiasm.

“Fine with me,” Alexander says, muffled from where his face is buried between her thighs, where he’s been for a while. He licks over her clit to feel her quiver against him, kisses the inside of her thigh, nuzzles against the soft skin there because he knows she’s ticklish. She reacts to everything so beautifully. It’s wonderful, and exactly what he needed.

Alexander rests his chin on her knee, says, “You could tie me to the bed. Keep me captive.”

Eliza hums. “Perhaps. But it wouldn’t be captivity, as you’d be a willing subject.” She reaches down to tangle her hand in Alexander’s hair and lightly tugs, just enough to make Alexander moan and grind against the bed even though he’s already spent. “Continue.”

Alexander smiles, and dips his head back down between her legs. He’s already brought her off multiple times — he fucked one orgasm out of her, him pounding into her rough and desperate, and then she asked for _more_ and he said _fuck, yes_ and he crawled down her body, kissing every inch of her as he went, and then spread her open and sucked and licked his own come from her cunt and curled his tongue inside her until she was gasping for air and squeezed her thighs against him so they framed his head and then there was a wetness on his tongue. He had swallowed, said _you taste so good,_ and then eased up some — he wanted to make it last. Alexander loves this, he’s great at giving head — Eliza had quickly appreciated his skills on their wedding night, when he coaxed away her shyness with his mouth on her.

Now, it’s almost lazy, them taking their time with each other. Alexander laps at her folds as he slowly eats her out, and he slides two fingers inside her as his other hand skitters over her body, roaming her stomach and chest with teasing touches. “Please, I need,” Eliza begs, and Alexander can never deny her — he licks around his fingers, thumbs at her clit, finger fucks her until she clenches around his fingers and lets out a shout that she suppresses with her hand covering her mouth. Alexander moans as she shudders against him, takes a moment to pull back and enjoy the sight of her coming undone, and then he dives back in with his tongue flat against her cunt.

“Too much,” Eliza pants, and gently pushes Alexander’s face away from her. “Lay with me.”

Once Alexander moves so he’s lying next to Eliza, she kisses him hard on his red lips that are slick from her. Alexander sighs into the kiss, wraps his arms around her to pull her so she’s cradled against his body. She fits perfectly; she always has.

“I missed you so much. Every day. Not just…this,” Alexander says, gesturing between them, their sweaty bodies pressed against each other. “It was awful without you. I was lonely.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Eliza coos. She pushes a strand of hair behind Alexander’s ear. “Were the mean politicians mean to you?”

“Yes,” Alexander replies, surlier than intended. He presses his face to Eliza’s shoulder and lets out an anguished sigh. Truly, his trip to the Capitol had been better received than he had thought, but there had still been the vibe that he was disregarded as _old government._ Unimportant, only until someone wanted to use him. An outsider in the place where he once was supreme.

And then there was the matter with Burr.

“Everything sucks,” Alexander whines. It’s a bit of a dramatic declaration, but, whatever. Things aren’t good. He snuggles closer to Eliza, because he can. It helps him feel better, somewhat.

Eliza must notice that he’s shivering from the cool night air, because she sits up for a moment to pull the blanket up and over them, and then snuggles back with Alexander. She rubs his back in small, smoothing circles. “I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” she says, and Alexander hates to ruin a good moment but he groans.

“But it is,” he protests. “Jefferson is president again, the Federalists lost the House again, people are working to dismantle the financial system I made for our country, and tensions are rising internationally.” _As well as domestically,_ Alexander thinks, unsaid.

Eliza lets out a soft sigh, and Alexander knows that it’s more of annoyance than anything. She gets like that — upset when he’s stressed over something that she can’t help solve. But really, most of his problems aren’t solvable by anybody, and he makes them worse half of the time. And by Eliza’s belief, if there’s nothing he can do to fix it, then he might as well forget about it.

“Life will go on,” Eliza says.

So it shall. It has to.

 

* * *

 

Alexander doesn’t hear from Burr the next day, or the next. Coincidentally, Alexander is anxious the next day, and then more anxious the next.

He sends Burr a letter inquiring why he hasn’t called on him, subtly written so Burr won’t think that Alexander is too concerned. Burr replies, writes, _for fuck’s sake leave me alone, you messed everything up, I don’t ever want to talk to you again._

No — that’s not what it says, but it’s what Alexander imagines between the lines. Alexander reads his letter again. It actually says:

_Alexander. I am readjusting to my home and life. Haven’t you spent enough time with me recently? Regardless, I’ll see you soon._

Alexander doesn’t understand how Burr can act as though nothing happened between them. But, he’s never understood Burr. What’s new?

But maybe nothing did happen. Maybe nothing happened and Alexander is making it into something, _hoping_ that it meant something. That those shared glances that are just a second too long, the way they have a comfortable affinity for the other, or how _right_ his body felt against his would amount to something more. But Alexander is a fool — he can’t have that. It’s not so much he’s a man — it’s a bad decision for so many other reasons.

Alexander won’t make that mistake again.

 

* * *

 

Alexander goes to work, because that’s what he does — when his life is in chaos, he works to have it make sense. It’s a good distraction, because it takes two days to realize he’s alone.

He didn’t expect Burr to come when he summons him, but he does, looking mildly displeased to be in his presence. Alexander tries not to take it personally.

“You can’t be my partner if you don’t show up to work,” Alexander says, looking up from his desk.

Burr shifts, looks around the room as though he’s trying to figure out where he’ll fit in the mess, and subsequently, if he made a big mistake by agreeing to join Alexander’s law practice. It’s then that Alexander realizes that there isn’t a desk for Burr. Burr will have to bring his own because Alexander can’t really afford it at the moment.

“I wasn’t sure if you were serious,” Burr says, slowly. “If you wanted me here.”

Alexander gestures to the piles of never-ending paperwork. “Look at all this shit. I can’t do it alone,” he says, and then to ensure that Burr will agree, he adds, “Help?”

Burr settles for sitting in the chair in front of Alexander’s desk. “You could take a lighter caseload.”

“No. I have to accept all the clients I can because to be honest, I need the money,” Alexander says. That’s another pang of guilt, not being able to support this family. He’s horrified at the thought that he would have left them with insurmountable debt had he died. “I won’t have it so my father-in-law has to help support my family, but I was out of work for so many months and—”

“Sorry.”

Alexander groans, runs his hands through his hair. “Would you stop saying that you’re sorry? I didn’t intend to put you on a guilt trip, goddamn. I was telling the facts.” He sighs. “If you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine, but I was saying—”

“It’s fine, I get it,” Burr says. “I have my financial burdens myself. And I know that I owe you—”

Alexander waves his hand. “That’s nothing,” he says, but Burr still looks ashamed.

They haven’t spoke about that night since it happened, only a few weeks before their duel. Burr had came to Alexander’s house in the dead of night in a panic, saying things about how he was drowning in debt and needed some assistance or else something might happen. Alexander didn’t ask what _or else_ meant. He thought that maybe Burr telling him might make the _or else_ happen. He gave Burr the money he needed and didn’t ask questions, but he was sure to check on Burr the next day. He was fine, as he always seems to be.

“Still,” Burr says.

“You’re the only person I can tolerate to work with me,” Alexander says.

“Well, with an compliment like that,” Burr says. He reaches across the desk and shakes Alexander’s hand. “Okay then, partner.”

 

* * *

 

When Alexander tells Eliza of him and Burr going into business together, he expects her to react with some hesitance.

Instead, she organizes a picnic.

“To celebrate,” she says.

And that’s how Alexander ends up in their backyard sitting on a flannel blanket, with Burr and Eliza sitting on either side of him.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. It’s sunny, Spring is crisp in the breeze, and it’s only a little bit awkward to be between his wife and the guy…he doesn’t have a description for it. They’ve gotten good at pretending everything is fine between them. They’ve had practice — this isn’t the first time there’s been something between them.

Today, he will enjoy what he has.

“Ouch,” Alexander hisses, and Burr and Eliza laugh as Alexander attempts to pry his hair from Phil’s tiny grabby hands. He ends up having to blow a raspberry on Phil’s neck and bounce him in his lap to make Phil let go. He quickly pushes his hair away, safe from the toddler’s reach, and then kisses his cheek. Phil’s little baby giggles warm his heart more then the sun.

When he looks to Eliza and Burr, Alexander realizes that they’re looking at him the same way.

Well, fuck.

Anyway.

Burr may be…Burr, but his daughter is a saint. Theo has taken both to Angie and Al, both of whom need the extra attention. Al is more outgoing and himself when he has Theo’s attention, and Angie appears to be almost happy when she’s around. Carefree. Theo has the same charming energy as her father, and Alexander knows how easy it is to fall for it — he was enchanted by Burr when he first met him, charmed by his allure. Burr was enticing to Alexander — genius, astute, and irresistibly handsome.

It hasn’t changed much as they’ve aged. Even if Alexander knows now that Burr can be a helpless mess.

The kids are sitting in the grass, far enough away so that their parents can’t hear their conversation. The three of them took their sandwiches and separated themselves from the adults and younger children, the latter who play tag a few feet away.

Alexander watches the older ones. They’re eating watermelon, giggling as they see who can spit seeds the farthest. Angie spits one a respectable distance, and Alexander wonders who taught her how to spit — and then has the crushing sadness when he realizes it must’ve been Philip. Theo spits a seed, it disappearing into the grass near Angie’s. Al spits one, and it lands on his chin. Al blushes as Theo leans in and wipes it away, and Angie leans against Theo as she laughs loudly enough for Alexander to hear. Alexander smiles.

“I don’t think I’ve seen them this happy since Philip passed,” Eliza says, her voice soft. Alexander reaches for her hand, squeezes. He kisses baby Phil on his cheek. Eliza continues, “Alexander and I are so thankful for the friendship she’s shown our children. You’ve raised her well.”

Burr nods, taking the compliment, but says, “It’s all her, really. She’s a kind soul.” He falters for a second as he looks over to where Theo and the others are gathered close, their heads bent together as though they’re sharing secrets.

“She understands loss,” Burr says. He clears his throat. “Her mother—”

“Yeah,” Alexander finishes for him, because Burr’s expression is too pained. Alexander can’t imagine how Burr must feel. If he lost Eliza…well. He doesn’t know how he’d feel, because he would rather be dead.

“The loss of her brother has been difficult for Angie,” Alexander says. “And I think Al believes that he has to live up to something, now that he’s the eldest son. And I—” He pauses when his eyes sting and his throat feels like it’s going to close up. He holds Phil tightly, face buried in his soft, dark brown hair. He doesn’t want any of his babies to hurt. He thought fatherhood would be easier as he got older. It hasn’t. He doesn’t know how to help his children, they hurt and he doesn’t know how to fix it, and he hates that he’s cursed with death following him because—

Eliza gently kisses his cheek, dragging him away from his spiraling thoughts. “Hey,” she says, cupping his face with her hand, making him look at her. “It’s okay.”

Alexander nods. Eliza is the one who has it together. She’s the one who brought them back together, after Philip died. She’s the one who made sure they were all okay. She’s the strong one.

“I’m sorry,” Burr says, and Alexander had almost forgot he had been there until he puts his hand on his knee. Alexander looks at Burr’s hand. It’s comforting, Eliza and Burr both there. He wonders if it’s selfish to want both when it makes him feel good. It’s not anything indecent. Burr is a good friend. That’s all.

Phil manages to wiggle free from Alexander’s hold, and grabs the ruffle of Burr’s shirt. Burr chuckles, asks, “May I?” and Alexander nods and hands Phil over for Burr to hold. Burr holds Phil with ease, even when Phil gets fussy when he realizes that Burr has no hair to tug like his parents. Alexander leans back against Eliza, and lets out a long sigh. Everything is okay.

 

* * *

 

“It was nice spending time with Burr,” Eliza says, that night when they’re in bed. A candle burns next to them. Alexander is on his back, holding a book he isn’t reading. Eliza rests her head on Alexander’s shoulder, looking at Alexander with her honest, brown eyes. “Did you have a good time?”

“Uh huh.” Alexander isn’t really listening, doesn’t want to listen. He can’t look at Eliza — she always knows when he’s lying.

She notices anyway. Sitting up on her elbow, the blanket falls to her waist. “What’s the matter, Alexander?”

“Nothing,” Alexander says, although, it’s been established that it’s not _nothing_.

Eliza lets out a sigh. “Fine. Put out the light before wax melts on the table, okay?” she says, and goes to lie back down.

And it’s that simple. He can let guilt keep eating away at him.

“I fucked up,” Alexander says.

“What?” Eliza looks over her shoulder but once she sees Alexander’s horrified expression she sits up again, looking at him confused, but there’s the start of that fire she has inside that rarely surfaces. It’s so primed, it’s obvious she had suspected him of something. “What did you _do?”_

Alexander sets his book on the table, takes off his glasses and lays them on top — his hands are shaking.

“It wasn’t cheating,” Alexander starts, and he feels sick when Eliza looks at him in that way, like she’s shattered and it’s his fault. He touches her arm, and she pulls away — Alexander chokes on a sob.

“I wasn’t unfaithful, Betsey, I swear to God. I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did and I’ve felt _awful_ about it and I’ve kept trying to tell you but—”

“Who?” Eliza asks, her voice a mere whisper. “Who did you…?” She shakes her head, unable to say the words, and Alexander’s eyes widen when he realizes what she thinks he did.

“It’s nothing like that!” Alexander says, and Eliza shushes him, reminding him to not wake the children. “We both know it was a mistake, it was an accident. Trust me, Betsey.”

“Until you tell me about it, I’m going to assume the worst,” Eliza says, and Alexander realizes how vague it sounds. She says, “I can’t believe you, I _knew_ you’ve been acting strangely, but—”

“I kissed Burr.”

There, he said it.

Eliza blinks at him. “Oh.”

“Or really, he kissed me,” Alexander says, then adds, “And I kind of kissed him back? But I ended it and told him it was wrong.” He takes Eliza’s hand. “That’s it, I promise you. I would never hurt you again.” He kisses her hand, trails kisses up her arm. “Please forgive me.”

“How did it happen?” Eliza asks. Alexander knows that she doesn’t mean _how did it happen with another guy?_ but more _why did it happen at all?_ She knows of Alexander’s proclivities — there were his whispered confessions of what happened in tents during the war, and she and Alexander have often gossiped together in secret about who they thought the most attractive men at a party were. She never called him a deviant, and she loved him as he is. She understands him. She is the best wife that a man like Alexander could ask for.

“It was after the inauguration,” Alexander begins. “Burr and I were so hyped up, it’s like we were energizing each other, you know? And then we were alone in his office, and it was in the moment, one moment I was just talking to him and then he was kissing me and I was so surprised that I kissed him back, because, well, I don’t know. But it was only for a moment and then he apologized and we came to the conclusion that there were no intentions with it. A burst of affection for a friend.” He looks to Eliza, who blankly stares at him, so he keeps talking, “Burr is so goddamn _frustrating_ and now he’s all weird — why are you laughing?”

Because Eliza is definitely laughing. Not yelling or crying or glaring numbly at him, all things that occurred when he messed up, before — this is not what he expected at all, when he thought of telling her this. He supposes that it is funny, when he thinks of it. Him and the man who shot him, kissing.

Eliza hides her mouth behind her hand, says, “Oh my God. You have a _crush_ on Burr.”

“I do not!” Alexander protests, blushing furiously all over. He does not fancy Burr — not his dark eyes, strong muscular arms, flashy smile, witty intellect, how his ass looks great in breeches—

“Besides,” Alexander says. Yes, reflect back to her. “You don’t seem as upset about this as I thought. Or as you were a minute ago.” He thinks that he’d rather have her quiet rage than be accused of having an _infatuation_ with Burr.

Eliza smiles and pats her very confused husband on the cheek, and then leans across Alexander to blow out the candle, leaving them in darkness.

“Lay down with me, it’s getting late,” Eliza says. Alexander had thought for sure that he would be sleeping on the lumpy couch in his office, so he lets Eliza drag him down so he’s lying next to her — him on his back, her resting her head on his chest. Alexander runs his hand up Eliza’s back and leans in to kiss her forehead. She shifts against him, wraps an arm around his middle and clings to him. He still doesn’t understand. He wonders if this is some kind of test.

After a few minutes of silence, Eliza says, “I know that there’s a certain magnetism between you and Burr.”

Alexander scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means.”

There is an inexplicable attraction between the two — it’s not always a good thing. Sometimes it’s a push, sometimes it’s a pull.

“You’re not upset by this?” Alexander asks, and then hears Eliza let out a deep sigh.

“Nobody likes it when their husband kisses other people, no matter if it was — what did you say? An _accident,_ or not,” Eliza says. Alexander starts to apologize again but Eliza cuts him off, saying, “But I’m not angry, no.”

Alexander lets out a sigh of relief. He thinks that maybe her forgiveness is easier because she didn’t have to read about his indiscretion in the newspapers, or that it’s less involved. “I don’t deserve you,” Alexander says, holding Eliza tighter, and Eliza tells him to hush and don’t speak nonsense.

Alexander still feels like an asshole.

“I understand, though. You’re both handsome men,” Eliza says, and Alexander can _hear_ the smile in her voice. “But tell me, is Burr a good kisser?”

“Eliza!”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to tease.” Eliza shifts against him so she can kiss his cheek. “This explains why Burr has been so weird around you lately,” Eliza mutters.

“Burr is always weird.”

“Well,” Eliza says, not disagreeing. “But it also explains why you’ve been so tense around him.”

“Of course it’s going to be _tense_ between us _._ There was this thing, where he kind of shot me and—”

“And him kissing you is the other end of the spectrum?”

Alexander groans, curls on his side against Eliza. “I don’t know what to do, Eliza.”

Eliza pats his side. “It’ll get better, like how you solved your differences after your duel. Everything will be okay.”

Alexander wants to say, _and will I be getting over this apparent crush on Burr?_ but that would be acknowledging that it might exist.

“How can you be so sure?” Alexander asks.

“Do you intend to pursue anything else?” Alexander can’t see Eliza, but he’s certain that she has _that_ look on her face — stern, demanding the truth from him.

“Burr would never want it,” Alexander says, and Eliza makes a clicking noise with her tongue, and Alexander quickly adds, “Not that I would if he did! No fooling around. You’re my one.”

There’s a beat, and then Eliza says, “Okay.”

Alexander shouldn’t continue, but he always talks more than he should. He says, “You didn’t have to forgive me. Not now, or…before. If it were reversed and you were the unfaithful one—”

“I know,” Eliza says softly. They both knew that it had been impossible for her to leave him when he had had his affair. A woman doesn’t have a lot options when it comes to that sort of thing. It’s just how things are.

He runs his hand through Eliza’s silky hair, says a prayer of thanks that he has her.

“There’s something else,” Alexander says, because what the hell, he might as well confess everything. He doesn’t like keeping secrets from Eliza, and he’s realizing how insufficient he’s felt keeping them from her. “Burr had this insane idea, and at first I thought was a joke, but the more we’ve discussed it, the more it seems like a possibility.” Alexander pauses, because now that he has to tell it to someone, it seems ridiculous. “But he had this stupid promise that if I lived through my injuries that he’d help me win the Presidency.”

The silence between his confession and Eliza’s response is longer than when he told her that he had kissed Burr. Alexander has to shake her and say her name to get her to speak.

“So that’s what’s had you on edge for months?” Eliza asks. Her tone is straightforward.

“I guess so?” Alexander wonders if Eliza can hear his heart hammering away from where she’s got her head resting against his chest. “It’s been something on my mind.”

“I’d say,” Eliza says, and Alexander can _feel_ how pissed off she is, “I knew you were keeping something from me, and when you said that you and Burr had a lapse of judgment and made out I thought that was what had you in a state, but that happened only a week ago, and you’ve been so fidgety and distracted, more than usual for months. Angelica said I was imagining things and that it was probably some lingering trauma from your injury but—”

“I’m sorry—”

“I mean, it’s kind of a big deal,” Eliza says. Alexander thinks how odd it is to be having this conversation in the dark, with them cuddled up against each other. Married life. Eliza continues, “Presidency? Do you think it’s a good idea, with everything that’s happened?”

“My health is _fine_ ,” Alexander says, raising his voice slightly. “I’m perfectly capable of running the country. I could be bleeding out and still do a better job than—”

Eliza kisses him silent, and rubs his chest to calm him. “I know, sweetheart,” she says, reassuring, and why did he ever doubt her support. “I meant — do you want to do it? Or are you doing it to prove something?” Eliza asks.

“I…don’t know,” Alexander admits. It hasn’t really occurred to him that he could turn it down.

“It’s okay. Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Eliza whispers, when Alexander never gives her an answer. “We’ve had enough discussion for one night.”

Things may not be resolved, but Alexander’s conscience is clear, and he sleeps better than he has in months.

 

* * *

 

“I wouldn’t run for office because I’m unsatisfied with my life,” Alexander says, continuing the conversation where they left off. “You are enough to make me happy.”

Eliza smiles. “I know,” she says. “After all, I know who I married.” She knows that Alexander has that relentless drive for _more._

“I suppose that I would be doing it to prove something,” Alexander says. Prove that a penniless bastard immigrant could achieve the highest honors, despite everything life has against him. “But I also want to do it because I think that I could do it well.”  He could represent the office like his General did.

“And I think you could too.” Eliza reaches forward and takes his hands in hers. “I think you should do it.”

Her eyes have a sparkle that he feels in his chest.

“You truly mean it?”

“Yes,” Eliza says. “You deserve it, my wonderful husband.”

Alexander kisses her hard, wrapping his arms around her. When they part, Eliza can’t stop smiling at him.

“It’s a while off, but it’s nice that it’s settled,” Alexander says.

Eliza nods. “And if you lose, you can say that you tried.”

“I don’t _lose_.”

“Right.” Eliza raises her brows. “So what’s next?”

 

* * *

 

It so happens that Burr visits them that afternoon.

“I have something to tell you,” Alexander says. He looks to Eliza, excitement blazing in his insides.

“Me too,” Burr says, slowly. He gestures out to Alexander and says, “You first.”

Alexander swallows. “I told Eliza,” Alexander says, and then adds, “About our goal for my Presidency,” when Burr looks like he’s going to faint. There were two possibilities that Alexander could have shared with Eliza, and it’s clear that Burr must’ve have thought he meant the more intimate one. Alexander isn’t going to tell Burr that he told Eliza that too — what Burr doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Ah.” Burr bites his bottom lip. He turns to Eliza, asks, “And your opinion?”

She laughs. “I think you’re both mad,” she says, looking between the two men. “But I am with you.”

Alexander puts an arm around her and holds her tight. “So I have another supporter. That makes a total of two.”

Burr clears his throat. “I may have told Theo. She had a similar reaction, but she supports this endeavor as well.”

“So I have three supporters! This day is getting even better.” Alexander laughs, Eliza and Burr joining him. It’s nice, having both of them with him.

He shakes the thought away, and then asks, “What did you have to say, Burr?”

Burr’s expression contorts into that wearisome look he gets. “I came to pay a debt,” Burr says, and he reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick envelope that he hands to Alexander.

Alexander opens the envelope and peeks inside, and then snaps his eyes back up to Burr. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t want to owe you anything,” Burr explains, “especially if we’re going into business together.” He pauses, and gestures between them. “I wanted a clean slate.”

“Uh, thanks?” Alexander says. Because what else is someone supposed to say when they hand you a bundle of money that is owed, and desperately needed?

He remembers Burr’s own financial troubles. Alexander asks, “How did you come by this much money?”

“I may have…sold my house,” Burr replies.

“What?”

“It’s fine,” Burr says, as cool and collected as ever. “I am able to pay you back, and all my other debts. I was growing tired of living at the estate, anyway.”

Alexander turns to Eliza, looks at her to make sure she also thinks that Burr has totally lost it.

“Where are you and Theo going to live?” Eliza asks.

Burr shrugs. “We have a week to move out. We can stay with Van Ness, or I’ll rent a small apartment downtown until—”

“That’s not good, Burr,” Alexander says.

“Well, what else can I do?” Burr asks.

Alexander is formulating an idea, but Eliza thinks of one first.

“Move in with us,” Eliza says.

Alex and Burr stare at her, both unsure if they heard correctly.

Eliza continues, “We have the space — you can take the spare room, and Theo can share with Angie. I’m sure that neither of the girls will mind. I don’t like the idea of you two living somewhere uncomfortable.”

Burr sputters. “I— that’s. That’s quite the imposition.”

Alexander shakes his head. “No, it’s a great idea,” he says. “If you’re living here, it’ll be more convenient for work, too.” He wants to convince Burr to stay, even if the thought of having Burr around him all the time makes his chest ache.

Eliza pushes Alexander. “It isn’t an opportunity for the two of you to work into the night.” She turns to Burr, smiles. “I know that you’d do the same for us. You’ve been so helpful.”

Burr looks as though he has some misgivings, but he doesn’t want to say no. “It’ll be temporary,” Burr says. “Until I can afford to be on my own.”

Alexander nods. “Of course.”

Alexander shakes hands with Burr. As Burr’s fingers tighten around his, Alexander realizes that Burr will never stop owing him.

He’s okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes! Not many for this chapter???  
> \- the story about Burr going to Hamilton for money because he was in debt is true, but I can't find the post again. In the post, they inferred that Burr was talking suicide-like talk. So Hamilton gave him some money, and then gathered some from his friends. Burr never paid Eliza back.  
> \- Hamilton would buy watermelons to cheer Angie up.  
> \- not historical but...the Ham/Burr interactions will come, more than it is. I know it's really really really slow burn. I know it seems like mostly Ham/Eliza at the moment, but it'll get there. The tags don't lie.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who reads, comments, kudos, sends me messages on tumblr...it's all appreciated, and keeps me going. I appreciate it so much <333


	11. Aaron VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron's life is out of control, in regards to Hamilton. First, he shot him, and then he kissed him, and now he's living with him — Aaron comes to the realization that it's the fastest moving relationship he's ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November was an awful month, but here is the next chapter. Thank you so much for all your support. My heart is a-flutter.

It was a mistake to move in with Hamilton, because this time Aaron _might_ kill Hamilton for real. He’s tempted. Just a little.

His financial debts are paid, but Aaron regrets selling his house. Or at least, he regrets agreeing to live with the Hamiltons. _Alexander_ in particular. Alexander Hamilton is difficult to have as company, and impossible to live with (although the rest of the family are a bit tiresome to be with under the same roof too — there are so many damn kids). Aaron figures that for Hamilton, this is just another way to mess with him. Hamilton is there all the time. Hamilton is there at the table at breakfast, looking at Aaron over the paper. Hamilton goes to work with Aaron. Hamilton goes home with Aaron. Hamilton wakes Aaron in the morning. Hamilton drags Aaron to the park on the weekends, when they are off from work. Hamilton has nightcaps with Aaron. Hamilton is always _there._ Aaron never gets a moment of peace.

Not even in his sleep, does he find privacy from Hamilton. He invades Aaron’s unconsciousness, and Aaron dreams of Hamilton dying, bleeding out, crying _why did you do this to me? I thought you cared for me!_ but it’s not right, it’s not like before — when Aaron had left before Hamilton had a chance to speak to him on the Weehawken shore, and in these nightmares, they’re in Hamilton’s library and Aaron stands over Hamilton with blood on his hands.

He can’t tell Hamilton this when Hamilton shakes him awake, saying, “You’re dreaming, Burr.” Aaron blinks awake and Hamilton is right there. Alive. And it makes him afraid, but so thankful that he could…

For a respite, Aaron goes for drinks with Van Ness one evening. Hamilton meets him in the foyer, asks, “Where are you going?”

Aaron thinks of telling him _you’re not my keeper I can go where I damn well please_ but Aaron tells him, “Out with Van Ness,” anyway, because it's easier to go ahead and tell him than being willfully oppositional.

Hamilton goes to grab his coat and says, “Good, I’ve been wanting to talk to him—”

“I am going alone,” Aaron says, cutting off Hamilton’s assumed self-invitation. For a moment, he thinks how nice it would be if Hamilton begged to go and how he might let Hamilton accompany him, as a reward. However, Hamilton’s shoulders fall and he mutters, “Whatever, I didn’t want to go anyway,” then sulks away, without a fight.

Twenty minutes later, Aaron tells Van Ness about it.

“He thinks now that we are under the same roof, we must do everything together! He has no concept of personal space — except when he wants it, that is — and you know me, William, I need my alone time.”

“Uh huh.” Van Ness stares at Aaron with a glazed-over look, but he looks attentive enough, so Aaron continues.

“And Hamilton can be so goddamn _moody_ ,” Aaron says. “The other morning he nearly started an inquisition because someone ate his toast. Of course I was the prime suspect.” He finishes his drink, motions for Van Ness to pour him another. Van Ness sighs, and leans across the table to pour him another double of bourbon.

“Did you eat the toast?” Van Ness asks, flat, as though he doesn’t want to encourage Aaron’s melodrama.

Aaron sets the glass on the table, wipes the back of his mouth with his hand. “No! It was Hamilton kid number four. But of course I couldn’t tell on the kid,” Aaron says. John Hamilton had glared at him from across the table, silently pleading not to reveal him as the toast-eating culprit — he’s learning at a young age to be as manipulative as his father. “So we all suffered the consequences.”

“Well, toast is pretty great, I can see why Hamilton was so upset—”

“You’re missing the point,” Aaron says, short. “Alexander is difficult. Tiresome. Arduous.”

Van Ness laughs. “Dude. You’ve only been living with Hamilton for a week.”

Aaron frowns. “It’s been long enough to know how I feel about the matter.” One day had been enough — when Hamilton came into the room and yanked the blanket off of him, and then limped to the window and opened the curtains, demanding that Aaron woke up so they could get an early start on work. “There’s only so much one can take of Hamilton.”

Van Ness runs a hand over his shaved scalp, and then sighs. Aaron feels a little bit of pity, knowing that he always brings Van Ness these problems.

“You could just…leave,” Van Ness says eventually, as though it’s the simplest option in the world. “If being there with him makes you this, uh, distressed.”

Aaron scoffs. As if he could leave Hamilton. Leaving meant there is a problem. Leaving would be admitting defeat. He can’t do that, not again.

“It would be rude to refuse his family’s hospitality,” Aaron says.

“Sure,” Van Ness says, disbelieving.

Aaron goes to take a drink, but the glass is empty. He pours another.

“It’s complicated,” Aaron says, but when Van Ness asks why it’s _complicated_ , Aaron can’t say why. Why does everything with Hamilton have to be complicated?

It’s complicated, because it isn’t as complicated as it should be. They kissed — yes, it happened. Aaron acknowledges it (to himself — he can’t bear to discuss such matters with Hamilton), and he thinks of it often. Too often. He wants more. Hamilton awakened some horrible (wonderful) thing within him. He _wants_ Hamilton. Desires him. Aaron had agreed to stay with Hamilton for selfish reasons, because he loves being with Hamilton as much as he hates it. He couldn’t turn down the offer, in the hopes that it could give him enough of Hamilton. Quell this unorthodox inclination. But instead of appeasing Aaron’s want, it’s only increased. He’s discovered a fondness for Hamilton’s ways, even when Hamilton is being vexing. _Especially_ when he’s being vexing. It’s his fault, really, thinking he could overcome it — the allure of Hamilton. And now he’s held captive to Hamilton’s smiles, his jokes, the curve of his neck, his damn beautiful hair. At times, Aaron contemplates waiting around for when Hamilton bathes again in case he needs help washing his hair again.

Aaron ends up getting so drunk that Van Ness has to deliver him home. Aaron laughs. _Home._ The designation fits quite comfortably. He likes that it does.

Hamilton is waiting when they arrive, sitting on the porch when everyone else has long been in bed. He stands, using his cane for support, and watches Van Ness help Aaron stumble up the stairs.

“I’m fine,” Aaron insists, but everything spins and he sways, falls forward.

Hamilton catches him. Sturdy. Aaron groans into Hamilton’s shoulder as Hamilton wraps his arm around his middle and says, “I’ve got you.”

While he’s buried into the safety of Hamilton’s coat, he faintly hears Van Ness and Hamilton bickering — something about them blaming the other for his drunken state. Aaron tries to say, _the two of you are exactly the reason why I drink,_ but it comes out as a very non-eloquent, “Nngh.”

Van Ness makes sure there’s a peaceful transfer, and then leaves quickly. He probably fears that he’ll get involved in another hours long conversation if he stays.

“C’mon, you idiot,” Hamilton says, but there’s no bite to it, only gentle amusement. Or maybe that’s what Aaron imagines it as. “Let me drag your ass inside.”

Hamilton pushes at Aaron’s body to get him into a standing position, and it suddenly occurs to him that he’s not sure how this will work, when it’s a struggle for Hamilton to walk on his own at times. He straightens up and takes a step back, but then he loses his balance and he swears he’d fall on his ass if Hamilton doesn’t grab his arm. Aaron worries for a second that he’s going to pull Hamilton down with him. But he doesn’t — Hamilton is _strong_ , he has a tight hold on around his wrist and he has an even stronger glare as he tells Aaron, “Stop being stubborn.”

Aaron lets Hamilton turn him around, drape his arm across Hamilton’s shoulders, and Hamilton wraps his arm around Aaron’s waist. Hamilton leans heavily on his cane as they walk into the house, with Hamilton supporting Aaron’s drunk dead-weight.

“You’re awesome,” Burr slurs.

Hamilton chuckles, and then takes another step, grunting at the effort of Aaron leaning on him as he walks. Hamilton’s arm shakes at the strain, his knuckles white gripped on the cane handle.

“Am I hurting you?” Aaron mumbles into Hamilton’s ear.

He’s close enough to kiss him.

“I’m fine,” Hamilton says. He looks next to him. “Just don’t throw up on me.”

Aaron wonders if Hamilton thinks of kissing him, too.

Hamilton ends up dumping Aaron on the couch in the sitting room because they both know that no matter how much willpower Hamilton has, there’s no way he can carry Aaron up the stairs to the bedrooms. Aaron flops on his back with an _oof_ and Hamilton almost falls on top of him, but he catches himself with the back of the couch, his hand pressed against it as he catches his breath. Aaron reaches up and touches Hamilton’s waist — more touch he than he'd allow if he were sober — and asks, “Are you all right?”

Hamilton looks down at him and gently smiles. “I’m the one who should be asking that question,” he says, and takes Aaron’s hand and lays it on Aaron’s chest. Hamilton stands, takes off Aaron’s shoes and tosses them to the floor. Lays a knitted blanket over Aaron. Fluffs a pillow. Says, “Go to sleep.”

“Thanks,” Aaron says, and he feels half asleep already, exhausted by liquor and stress and life in general.  “Thank you for helping me.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Hamilton says. Hamilton pats Aaron’s shoulder, and there’s a moment where they’re looking at each other, but saying nothing. They don't need to — they're in harmony, perfectly.

Aaron wonders if he’s slipped into a dream.

But Aaron knows that this is reality; his dreams are never this good.

“Do you mind—,” Hamilton begins, and he takes a few steps to the high-backed chair next to the couch and goes to lower himself into the seat. “Do you mind if I take a seat? I’m not, like, trying to make sure you don’t choke on your vomit, I just need to rest for a moment.”

Aaron grumbles, “Sure, it’s your house,” but Hamilton is already sitting and reclining back and making himself comfortable, so, it doesn’t really matter. Aaron closes his eyes and tries to relax thinking that Hamilton is actually making sure he doesn’t die in his sleep. It makes him feel conflicted — he’s pleased that Hamilton cares enough to watch over him, but troubled that Hamilton has advantage over him. And he feels so stupid coming back here, wasted, all because—

—he falls asleep before he can think of it much more.

Hamilton sleeps next to Aaron in the chair all night long. When Eliza wakes them in the morning, Hamilton complains about his back hurting and Aaron has a hell of a hangover, but they are fine.

 

* * *

 

Aaron is sure that Hamilton’s family has as many misgivings about him living in their home as he does. He feels like an intrusion — it’s not that they make him feel unwelcome, but it’s as though he doesn’t belong. That no matter how friendly he and Hamilton are, they still have their grievance that he almost caused Hamilton to die. The children are apprehensive around him, and Angelica has made it known that she isn’t pleased and thinks it’s a bad idea. Aaron wouldn’t expect anything less from Angelica, and he admires her strong-willed personality — he remembers when they were younger, and she backed him down on the street when he came on to her.

“It’s not like he’s going to murder me in my sleep,” Hamilton says when Angelica voices her concerns. “He already had the chance, if he were going to.” He looks over to Aaron, smiling. “Or perhaps you just gave Burr a new idea, dear sister.”

And then Angelica makes a thinly-veiled, but polite, threat on his well-being if he hurts Eliza or Alexander.

Eliza is the only person who treats him without scorn. She is kind and compassionate to Aaron, gives him a second chance that he probably doesn’t deserve. But Aaron can’t help but feel like she pities him, which is almost as bad as the others being slightly rude. He avoids Eliza as much as he can, because he can’t handle her being _sorry_ for him when she should hate him, and because he can’t face her when he harbors feelings for her husband.

Or, whatever the hell it is that he and Hamilton have. It’s unprecedented. Whatever it is, it makes him feel guilty guilty guilty — it’s like he and Hamilton are hiding a dirty secret. He goes to bring it up because it’s getting ridiculous, but he guesses that he is a coward because he never can mention it, and Hamilton is too stubborn to talk about it either, so they’re left to deal with awkward tension between them.

Aaron hopes that Hamilton is suffering as much as he is. The accidental brushes of their hands work Aaron up into state, and the sight of Hamilton’s fine ass as he leans over the desk to jot down a note makes Aaron _ache —_ it’s something that Aaron cannot identify other than pure _lust._ He wants Hamilton, and now that he accepts it he realizes that he’s wanted him for a long time.

Hamilton is ruining his life. Aaron catches himself indulging in the fantasy of _what if_ — but then stops it. He can never have Hamilton like _that_ , he will never have intimate companionship with him. He ignores it, and is left with blue balls at night when he refuses to touch himself and think about Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

Their law practice does well. Better than well. Aaron and Hamilton successfully win their first case together as reunited co-counsels. Everyone watches in amazement as once-rivals work as a perfectly-fitting set — Hamilton leads the charge, and Aaron wraps it together and executes with a final blow. They’re unstoppable.

Hamilton gives him a high-five as they leave the courthouse. “Nice job, co-counsel.”

Aaron hand tingles where Hamilton had slapped it. “Same to you, co-counsel,” Aaron says. If Aaron can’t have Hamilton in the way he wants, this is good enough.

They celebrate their success that night. The Hamiltons, Theo, and Aaron have a great dinner and truly enjoy each other’s company. They laugh and talk, as though it’s something they do all the time. Aaron and Hamilton regale the children and Eliza with stories of their youth when they were lawyers just starting out after the war. “Remember when I put the candle in the man’s face to prove him as the murder, and it scared him into confessing?” Hamilton asks, but Aaron says, “No, I think I did that,” but it doesn’t matter because it’s a good story, and Hamilton tells it better. The younger children are put to bed, and the elder Hamilton children and Theo have private conversations while Aaron has pleasant conversation with Hamilton and Eliza until they all start yawning. Then, when it’s all done, Hamilton says, “Do it again tomorrow?”

And Aaron says, “You know where to find me,” and then Hamilton claps him on the back before going in the direction of his room.

It’s wonderful, and for a moment everything is okay.

 

* * *

 

News travels fast.

“What the hell is that?”

Aaron looks up to see what Hamilton is talking about. In the doorway of their ( _theirs,_ his and Hamilton’s) office, stands Van Ness, awkwardly holding a blue clay flowerpot that has a green plant overflowing from it.

“It’s a flower, obviously,” Van Ness says, lifting it up slightly to show it off. “For the both of you. Congratulatory flower.”

Aaron turns to Hamilton, and almost laughs. Hamilton is looking at the flowerpot like it offends him, scowling, but the effect is ruined because his glasses are askew on his nose. Aaron resists the urge to walk over to his desk to fix them.

“I don’t have anywhere to put it,” Hamilton says, gesturing to his desk, which admittedly, doesn’t have any room to spare; he has the habit of never putting away files and books from cases and projects when he’s done with them. Every time Aaron swears he isn’t going to intervene, but every few days he ends up putting the papers away, lest Hamilton disappears in the mound of paperwork and is never seen again.

Van Ness grumbles something and his faces flushes a little, and Aaron can tell that his feelings are hurt, a little bit. He crosses the room and places the flowerpot on the corner of Aaron’s desk instead. Aaron offers his friend a smile and says, “It’s nice, William. Thank you.” Aaron hears Hamilton let out a huff of annoyance, but Van Ness’s demeanor perks up, so that’s what matters.

He peers at the plant, sees that the soil is damp, freshly watered, but that’s pretty much it besides the big green leaves. “It doesn’t look like much of anything,” Aaron says. “Did you gift Alexander and me a weed that you pulled from the side of the road?”

Van Ness rolls his eyes. “It just hasn’t bloomed yet,” he says. Aaron looks closer, and sure enough, he sees the tiny bulbs in the plant.

“I thought it was a good metaphor,” Van Ness continues. “Blooming flower, growing business.” He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. “I know it’s stupid but—”

“I think it’s nice,” Hamilton says, interrupting. “Thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome?” and it sounds more like a question when Van Ness says it, unsure what to make of Hamilton. He is familiar with Aaron’s teasing — Hamilton’s, not so much.

“I’ll make sure Burr doesn’t knock it to the floor,” Hamilton says, and he motions for Van Ness to sit down in the chair in front of his desk. “You know how clumsy our Burr is.”

Van Ness laughs, says, “Tell me about it. Have you heard about the time when he put salt in his tea instead of sugar?” and Hamilton says, “Oh my God, that’s happened more than once? Because he once did that with me too,” and then Aaron realizes that nothing good can come of this.

He goes back to his work, ignoring Hamilton and Van Ness as they bond over exchanging embarrassing stories about Aaron. He figures that they’ll run out of things to talk about, eventually. Maybe in a couple days.

He just hopes that Van Ness knows what’s good for him and doesn’t breathe a word about his confessions about Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

Philip Schuyler dies.

It had been expected, the man was old and unwell, but the loss is still felt. He was one of the few remaining figureheads of the Revolution — they’re all dying out, their ideas with them, leaving the nation in the hands of future generations.

The Hamilton house goes into mourning. Aaron thinking of donning black attire out of respect, but then he remembers that he doesn’t belong with the family. He’s only a spectator, a guest.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Aaron tells Hamilton, and Hamilton nods, acknowledging. The next part is more awkward, “It’s probably for the best if I do not attend the funeral services for General Schuyler, given our, uh, history,” because there isn’t a more delicate way for him to say _my presence would be a reminder how I publically embarrassed him and he claimed that I stole his seat in government._

“You’re probably right.” Hamilton smiles, something rare the past few days. “I don’t think Eliza ever told him that you were staying with us. He was ailing so, and had a weak heart.”

“If he had known, I’m sure that I would be blamed for his death,” Aaron says, but then bites his lip because that’s insensitive and rude, and an apology is formed on his tongue but Hamilton bursts into laughter.

It’s macabre, but it’s comforting that they can joke about such things. Aaron sees it as a sign that they’re healing.

Hamilton has Aaron sit across from him, says, “I love my family dearly, but I would value some conversation with another,” and, well. Aaron makes himself useful.

Aaron likes Hamilton’s study. It’s everything that he likes about the man himself. A cluttered mess, but orderly; neat around the edges, but scattered. Dark, warm. Familiar.

“Eliza’s father helped me out, and showed me great kindness. He gave me a chance, when he had no reason to even consider me — as an soldier, or as a son-in-law,” Hamilton says. It seems like he’s speaking to clear his mind, so Aaron listens as he continues, “He had no right to grant me permission to be with his daughter, but here I am. Over twenty years and eight children later, all because Philip Schuyler gave me a chance.” He smiles to himself, fondness lighting up his face. “However, I think my Eliza would have insisted, no matter what her father said. She spoke of elopement to me, if my proposal weren’t agreeable to her family.”

It’s difficult to think of the Schuyler-Hamilton wedding as anything but it was — a grand event during the chill of winter, in the heart of the war. Everyone spoke of how wonderful it was — the honor of General Washington standing with Hamilton in place of his family, how enchanting Eliza looked, how handsome Hamilton was, what a good match, something to bring hope. But Aaron didn’t see any of this — he had missed the ceremony. He doesn’t remember the reason why, all these years later. Perhaps because it seemed too joyous to celebrate while death surrounded them. Maybe it was because he longed to marry his own love, but could not. Or maybe, it was the knowledge that Hamilton was moving past him, and didn’t need to have him in his life — he remembers how Hamilton left him with the promise, _I’ll see you on the other side._

Hamilton must mistake Aaron’s quiet introspection as surprise, because Hamilton says, “My Betsey knows what she wants, and how to get it.”

That’s an image, her taking _him._

“Maybe she wanted to make sure she didn’t lose you,” Aaron says, because if he were a woman, after he met Hamilton for the first time, well. He understands.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Hamilton says. “Not only did I love Eliza, but I loved her family, too. And when I married her, I had a family again.”

That makes Aaron sad. He’s reminded that while they’re both orphans, he had it better than Hamilton. When his parents died, he had money and privilege, which made early life significantly easier for him.

“And now, my family is dying again.” Hamilton runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “After my son died,” he begins, “I had to pay for his overdue library book.”

Aaron blinks. He isn’t sure where this is going, but he gives Hamilton the opportunity to share. For once, he _needs_ to talk. But Aaron would be lying if it weren’t because he likes that Hamilton feels as though he can trust him with this.

Hamilton continues, “It was ridiculous. A bill came for him, after he was dead. For a fucking library book. Even though I’m positive it was known he was never going to be able to pay. I was so _mad_ — it was the first emotion I had other than sadness, since… I fixated on finding that book, because it would be one thing I could do for Philip. I looked everywhere but I could never find it. So I gave up, and I paid for the damn thing. His debt settled. Like I should have settled his other debt, about me. I thought about that a lot. And then as things do when you aren’t looking for them, I found the book. Months later. I had almost forgot about it. When I picked it up to look at it, the bookmarker fell out. Philip never finished it.”

Aaron puts his hand over Hamilton’s, rubs his thumb in small circles over the bony part of Hamilton’s wrist. “I’m so sorry,” Aaron whispers, and Hamilton nods and bites his trembling lip, as though he’s staving off tears. They stay like that for a few minutes, Aaron holding Hamilton’s hand, and Hamilton letting him.

Aaron feels kind of shitty doing this, stealing affection from Hamilton when Hamilton is vulnerable, but it feels natural — and too damn nice to let go.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says, wipes his face with his sleeve, and Aaron says, “Don’t be, there’s nothing to be sorry for.

Hamilton still holds Aaron’s hand.

“I am acting as though I am the only one who ever lost anyone,” Hamilton says, looks up at Aaron through his eyelashes. “When you — you have your own loss. That’s…” Hamilton shakes his head. “What is it like? I cannot imagine losing Eliza, I—”

“It’s the deepest sorrow. It’s like you lose a part of yourself when your partner is buried in the ground,” Aaron says, and his heart _aches_ because it will always be missing his Theodosia. “I imagine the pain is only second to losing a child.”

Hamilton’s hand twitches in his.

“We’ve experienced a lot of pain, you and I,” Hamilton says. “My fellow orphan.”

Aaron doesn’t know what to say to that, so he holds Hamilton’s hand until Hamilton pulls it away, and makes an excuse to leave.

 

* * *

 

That night, Aaron dreams of Hamilton dying again. Of killing Hamilton.

 _Why?_ Hamilton of his dreams asks. Even spread on the ground, bleeding from his gut, lips wet with blood, he is elegant. Beautiful.

 _Because you make me want you,_ Aaron tells this Hamilton. He wants him, fiercely. Ardently.

 _But now you’re going to die,_ Aaron says, _you’ve ruined everything._

 _Everyone has to die,_ Hamilton says, and he smiles weakly and looks up to Aaron with that look that Aaron can’t deny. _Kiss me and make it better?_

Aaron does, he does.

 

* * *

 

Aaron’s life is out of control, in regards to Hamilton. First, he shot Hamilton, and then Aaron kissed Hamilton, and now he’s living with Hamilton — Aaron comes to the realization that it’s the fastest moving relationship he’s ever had.

He’s willing to see where it goes. Press too much and it could end, or spiral into something he can’t handle. He’s hardly managing now. But, it should be interesting, regardless.

But Hamilton accelerates, can never leave well enough alone…

They’re working at their office on the weekend, catching up from an overloaded week. They have assistance working in the side room: Al Hamilton, because he apparently wants to be a lawyer too but wants to help his father even more, and Van Ness because…Aaron isn’t sure why he’s there other than to be nosey.

So it’s just him and Hamilton, sitting next to each other at Aaron’s desk because Hamilton’s is too cluttered, speaking when necessary, shuffling papers between each other, working together to complete a task. The progress is efficient, the company pleasant. He and Hamilton in tandem, as one.

He’s caught unaware when Hamilton’s hand brushes against his. Aaron probably wouldn’t have noticed it if Hamilton’s touch didn’t linger.

“Hamilton,” Aaron says, looking down to where Hamilton’s hand covers his. There’s a paper cut on one of Hamilton’s knuckles. His fingers, ink-stained.

It should be easy to take his hand away, remove himself from this fuse with Hamilton, but he cannot — and once again he’s racked with guilt over something that he cannot help, nor understand.

“We _can’t,_ Alexander,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, something for only Hamilton to hear. Another secret between them.

Hamilton must know that it’s wrong, too. He squeezes Aaron’s hand, then pulls his own away, dragging it against Aaron’s arm slow, fingers trailing up — causing Aaron to _shiver_ — before setting it in his lap. He looks down, his hair falling forward into his face.

“I told Eliza,” Hamilton says. “I told her everything.” He looks up at Aaron, gives him a troubled grin. “I told her that we kissed.”

“No,” Aaron says, but it’s too late — Hamilton said it, and everything changes again.

“Yes.” Hamilton points at Aaron, taps his chest. “And I’ll have you know that she took it rather well. My Eliza is progressive.”

“Progressive doesn’t mean _stupid,_ which your wife is not,” Aaron says roughly, whispered. He glances to the door that leads to where Hamilton’s son and Van Ness are, then lowers his voice even more, says, “And it’s hard to believe she’s okay with you kissing another man.”

Hamilton winces at the harshness of Aaron’s words. “It’s not like she’s going to turn us in and have us hanged if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Jesus Christ, Alexander.”

“I’m just saying that. You’d be surprised,” Hamilton says, and well. What does that even mean? Aaron waits for him to expand, tell him what’s so surprising, but he doesn’t. It’s a secret he keeps to himself.

“She knows that it was a one time thing,” Hamilton says. Shrugs. “It was _nothing,_ after all.”

And of course Hamilton has to throw that in his face. Aaron regrets saying that their moment of passion was _nothing._ He should have said, _Yes, it was something and I don’t know what, but I want more._

“We’ve been through a lot,” Hamilton continues. “We’ve had to figure out what we mean to each other. So…that was a misinterpretation of our feelings. Just a digression.”

But Hamilton has never been _just_ anything.

“How can you speak of it like it isn’t affecting you?” Aaron asks, despairing — because he thinks _how does it not? do you not think of our bodies pressed against one another every time you see me? because that is what I think of every time I look at you, I am reminded of your lips on mine, and I have begun to think of it when I’m not with you—_

“Oh, so _now_ you want to talk about it?” Hamilton asks, his voice rising, his hands waving about. Aaron sputters, doesn’t know what to say because, yes — he did deny it but he can’t any longer but now it’s too late, again—

Hamilton shakes his head, doesn’t wait for Aaron to sort out his sensibilities. “You know what? Fuck this.”

Aaron watches as Hamilton pushes back his chair, grabs his cane, uses it to stand up.

“I’ll see you later,” Hamilton says and he goes to leave, but Aaron stands quick and grabs Hamilton’s wrist and asks—

“Stay?”

There’s an inaudible reverberation between them, but it’s felt — Aaron holds his breath while Hamilton stares at him wide-eyed, it’s almost like he’s surprised, but then Hamilton _laughs_ and if that doesn’t make Aaron feel like shit, he doesn’t know what does.

“No.” Hamilton jerks his hand away from Aaron, freeing himself.

“You can’t just _leave_ ,” Aaron says, a step behind Hamilton, pursuing him, “for once in your goddamn life when I want to talk more, you end the conversation. Hey, listen—”

It happens so quickly, Aaron isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he knows that it’s his fault.

Aaron reaches out for Hamilton, and because Hamilton can’t move fast he’s right there. Aaron pulls on Hamilton’s arm, says, “Alexander, _please_ ,” but Hamilton demands, “Let me go!” and they struggle and fight against each other — but then Aaron feels the shift in their counterbalance and Hamilton loses his footing, falls forward. Aaron stumbles too, loses his grip on Hamilton and there’s no way he can catch Hamilton — Hamilton looks at Aaron as he starts to go down, like _oh shit_ , and he tries to grab his chair to hold on to but it goes down with Hamilton, it clattering to the floor with a crash next to him, along with his cane.

Aaron is at Hamilton’s side in an instant, kneeling next to where Hamilton is sprawled facedown on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Aaron touches Hamilton’s back, and thank God, Hamilton is moving; he pushes himself up with his hands, manages to get off his front and onto his knees, but he grunts in pain and flops on his ass on the floor.

Aaron is concerned — he forgot how easily Hamilton could be exerted, now.

“Alexander?” he asks. “Please talk to me.”

Hamilton shrugs off Aaron’s concerned touch. “Leave me the fuck alone.” He rubs his thigh, scowls.

Aaron tempers his sigh of relief. Hamilton sounds more embarrassed than injured. “Let me help you up.”

“ _No.”_

“Don’t be so fucking stubborn.”

“Make me, I _dare_ you,” Hamilton growls, and then he takes in a deep, sharp breath — he looks like a wild thing, his eyes dark, his hair in his face, he's looking for a challenge.

“You always do what I dare you to do,” Aaron says, and he pushes Hamilton’s hair away so he can see him better, frames Hamilton’s face with his hands, and Hamilton lets out a soft sigh and leans into his touch and Aaron realizes that he rises to every challenge, too.

He doesn’t know if it’s a failure, on either account.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asks, gently.

Hamilton pats his chest, his stomach, his leg, as though to take invoice of his body.

“I’m fine,” Hamilton says, quietly.

“Good.” Aaron rubs the stubble on Hamilton’s chin with his thumb, and Hamilton flinches slightly but he whines so nicely, so Aaron keeps doing it.

He is _so_ tempted.

“What are we doing?” Aaron asks, hushed.

“I don’t know,” Hamilton begins. “But we—”

They are blessedly, damnably interrupted.

Evidently hearing the ruckus of Hamilton’s fall, Al and Van Ness burst into the room. Al runs, gets down at his father’s side while Van Ness hangs back and looks like he swallowed a pinecone.

“Pop! Are you okay? What happened?” Al asks, wrapping his arms around Hamilton. Buries his face into Hamilton’s shoulder. He’s a sweet kid. Aaron understands why Theo might find him nice to talk to.

Hamilton pats Al’s back. “I fell. You know — clumsy me.” He shoots a loaded look to Aaron.

Aaron can’t meet his gaze. It hurts.

He blinks, stands. “He would not allow me to assist him upright.”

Al rolls his eyes, scolds Hamilton, saying, “Do you think you have more dignity stuck on the floor than accepting help?”

Surprisingly, Hamilton takes it, says, “Yes, I know, son,” and Al slides his arm around Hamilton’s back and holds him steady as he lifts him up from the floor and onto his feet. Hamilton lets out a small, disgruntled noise and clings to Al’s coat as he regains his balance, and he’s flushed across his cheeks, but he seems okay.

Aaron wonders if this is a common occurrence, Hamilton’s family having to help him when he’s not completely mobile.

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says to the Hamiltons, and then turns and quickly walks away. He pushes Van Ness into the side office and closes the door behind him. He leans against the door, exhales.

“What was that about?” Van Ness questions, when they’re alone.

“Nothing,” Aaron says. It’s nothing at the moment, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a tentative knock on the door, followed by Al opening it just wide enough to come through.

“My Pops will be fine,” Al says. “His only injury is a damaged ego.”

“How much can his ego take,” Van Ness mutters. Aaron kicks him under the desk.

“That’s great. I’m glad he’s well.” Aaron looks around. It’s awfully quiet. “Where is Alexander?”

“He went home early.” A grin tugs at Al’s mouth. “I suppose, to tend to his ego.”

Aaron laughs. “You’re alright, kid.”

“…Thank you, sir?” Al reacts as though he didn’t expect a compliment from Aaron. He furrows his brow, suspicious, but he smiles to offset it. Even though the junior Alexander is more mild-mannered than the senior, all Hamiltons are the same.

Aaron sits back in his chair, steeples his fingers. “Do you have anything else to tell me?” he asks. He looks Al down with a sharp, intrusive glare that’s earned him his cold-hearted status.

Al fidgets. “Um…nice buttons?”

Aaron can’t decide if the boy is being intentionally unruly, or is daft. Either possibility is too annoying to suss out, so he’s blunt and asks, “What are your intentions with my daughter?”

“Theo?” Al asks, dumbstruck, his voice pitching up an octave.

“Do I have another daughter that you’ve been courting?”

“ _Courting?”_

Van Ness clears his throat. “Maybe I should leave, or…?” He is ignored, so he slumps into the chair. He probably thinks he needs to stay in for Al’s protection.

“Is that not what you’ve been doing?” Aaron asks. “You go on walks together, talking in private, exchange letters—”

“I haven’t been courting Theo!” Al runs a hand through his messy curls, making his hair even more untidy. “I promise you, mister Burr. My intentions towards your daughter are honorable. I admit, that I had a fondness for her — because who wouldn’t! — but I value her friendship more, and I am content with that. She is clever and witty, and a close friend. A _friend_ , nothing more. You can ask her yourself, if you don’t believe me—”

Aaron holds up his hand for Al to stop.

“You make a compelling case,” Aaron says. He considers Al, and is reminded of the best parts of the young Alexander he knew. “You might make a good lawyer, after all.”

Al’s height grows about three inches; it’s a wonder what a confidence boost can do. “That’s so kind—”

“Don’t mention it.” Aaron waves his hand. “Now go.”

Al almost trips over his feet trying to get from the room.

“These Hamiltons are going to be the death of me,” Aaron says when Al is gone.

Van Ness scoffs. “It seems to me like you like them.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Stop.”

“Whatever.” Van Ness crosses his arms. He doesn’t have to say anything to make his point clear.

Damn him. Aaron should have never let him get friendly with Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

Although Hamilton had appeared to be in good shape after his tumble to the floor, Aaron worries about him, and leaves the office an hour after Hamilton. He intends to check in on him, as a concerned friend, and he composes the conversation in his head as he goes home.

_I’m sorry I made you fall and maybe hurt yourself but you wouldn’t listen to me and—_

Aaron is sure that Hamilton is in his home office, because that’s where Hamilton retreats to when he wants to sulk. Or when he has nothing better to do. Aaron has often found Hamilton in there at all hours of the day, holed up with a book, writing something that Aaron can’t ever be bothered to ask about, napping on the couch, staring out the window. It’s Hamilton’s haven, but he allows Aaron inside, and he allows him his company, never turns him away, and Aaron feels at ease with him.

That is why Aaron enters without knocking. It’s rude, and Hamilton would reprimand his children if they opened his closed door without asking. But Aaron assumes his familiarity with Hamilton, and he has to speak to him, right then.

“Hamilton, how are—oh my God.”

On Hamilton’s desk sits Eliza with her skirt hiked up, and Hamilton fucking into her fast and hard.

Aaron grips the doorknob, frozen in his spot. Aaron isn’t sure if they heard him —they haven’t slowed at all — and he quickly diverts his eyes, but then he hears a _gasp_ and he doesn’t know which one of them it’s from, and he can’t look away, then.

It turns out that Aaron needn’t worry about Hamilton because he’s apparently in _damn_ good health — he’s got his breeches pushed down to his knees, hips rolling to thrust into Eliza, and he must be nailing her _just_ right because she’s got her eyes closed, legs wrapped around his waist, and hands clutching his arms tight. Aaron can’t see any lewd body parts other than Hamilton’s ass (which, Aaron keeps looking at, how it tenses with each thrust) or up to Eliza’s knees where her skirts don’t cover (and he keeps looking there too, the fine lines of her legs); they’re both fully dressed, as though they didn’t have the time to strip because they were overcome with the sudden urge to fuck on Hamilton’s desk. But it’s still obscene, Aaron hears their slick sex sounds, sees their little bits of exposed skin wet with sweat, and can imagine a lot more with what he sees.

Aaron knows he should go, this is the most vulgar violation — smut, and a privacy of husband and wife. But he can’t, not when Hamilton mouths at Eliza’s neck and Eliza bites her lip but an, “ _Alexander,”_ slips out anyway, which spurs Hamilton on — he pushes forward, and Aaron guesses that he’s burying himself all the way inside judging by the way Eliza arches her back and lets out a shuddering breath, and once Hamilton is settled he grinds, circling his hips slow, and he slides one hand down from where it’s holding Eliza’s waist to rub at Eliza underneath her skirt.

Aaron’s dick is hard, there’s no denying it, he’s a disgusting voyeur — he has an urgency to hurry back to his room before he’s caught, but also so he can jerk off. He feels gross about it and he knows that feeling is rightfully so, but it’s also their intimacy that he enjoys — like how Eliza runs her hand through Hamilton’s hair and opens her eyes and smiles at him so sweetly, it’s obvious she loves him, and she focuses on him, until she doesn’t, and glances over to the door, and…sees Aaron.

Shit.

Neither know how to react, they stare at each other silently as Hamilton pounds into Eliza and Aaron stands there a few feet away, but then Eliza takes a deep breath and pats Hamilton’s shoulder and says, “Burr.”

That makes Hamilton’s motions come to a complete halt.

“ _Who_ did you say?” Hamilton asks, aghast, and Aaron would laugh — Hamilton, thinking his wife uttered Aaron’s name in passion — if it weren’t such an awful situation.

Eliza huffs, tilts her head in Aaron’s direction, and then Hamilton looks over his shoulder and follows Eliza’s line of sight and says, “Oh,” surprised when his eyes meet Aaron’s and Aaron wants to _die._

Aaron bolts from the room while Hamilton is still balls deep in his wife, before someone can do something else.

 

* * *

 

Aaron’s hand trembles as he strikes the match against the porch beam. He gets a flame lit, cups his hand around it as he lights his pipe. He inhales, and he instantly feels a little calmer — he closes his eyes, focuses on the prickle in his lungs instead of his rushing mind. He exhales, blowing out smoke slow.

Nope, it doesn’t help. He still thinks of Alexander and Eliza, _together_.

Aaron takes another drag of his pipe, rolls the taste of tobacco over his tongue as he thinks. It was a mistake, clearly. It’s not like he was seeking out seeing them bang. It was an accident — as so many things are, with him.

But staying, _watching_ — that was with purpose. He has no excuses for that.

He stays on the front porch, leaning on the railing as he smokes. He indulges in the habit less; it’s expensive, and if he wants to smoke he has to go outside because Hamilton complains of the stink.

Not that he’ll have that problem anymore. He’ll stay out here until he knows they are having dinner, and that’s when he’ll quietly pack up and leave. There’s no need to discuss matters that should never be spoken about, ever.

So naturally, Hamilton strolls out the front door, approaches Aaron. It’s been over half an hour since Aaron ran out on them, but Hamilton still has that _just had sex_ look — hair slightly out of place, clothes rumpled, his face flushed pink, he looks absolutely euphoric, and Aaron swears he’s got an extra bounce in his step.

Hamilton comes up to Aaron, wrinkling his nose at the cloud of smoke Aaron just let out, but he rests his hip against the rail and taps his cane on the wood floor. “Are you not going to say anything?”

Aaron puts out the pipe and dumps the ashes into the hedge.

“I’ll move out tonight,” Aaron says. As soon as he can, to spare them all the embarrassment. “If it’s acceptable, Theo can stay. She likes it here, do not blame her for my errors—”

“No,” Hamilton says, and when Aaron looks at him questioningly, continues, “What I mean is that you aren’t going to move out.”

“But— I—”

“It was our oversight,” Hamilton says, shrugging. “We didn’t lock the door.”

“Nevertheless,” Aaron begins, “it would be proper for me to leave.” He could hardly look at Hamilton or Eliza without feeling guilty, and now... It seems that he’s forever to be plagued with shame.

Hamilton lightly laughs. “Burr. We’ve had eight kids. It’s not the first time we’ve been interrupted mid-coitus.”

“Alexander!” They should _not_ be speaking of it.

“Chill.” Hamilton slaps Aaron on the shoulder. “Don’t look so distressed or it will upset Eliza.”

Aaron tries a forced, pained smile. Hamilton arches one brow and makes a face that doesn’t make him feel that confident.

“On second thought, don’t do that,” Hamilton says, putting his hand up. “Just be your normal amount of _blah._ ”

Eliza blushes when Aaron enters the dining room, she is quick to smile and turn conversation to something neutral.   As she takes her seat at the head of the table, Aaron notices that she changed clothes from what she was wearing earlier. A simple white dress that flows with her shape, adorned only with sheer decoration on the sleeves and bottom hem — white, _innocent,_ Aaron thinks, and he feels himself flush.

Hamilton smirks at him from across the table. “Doesn’t Eliza look beautiful, Burr?”

Aaron thinks of swallowing the napkin in his lap.

“Alexander,” Eliza says, a firm warning clear in her voice.

“You look very nice, Mrs. Hamilton,” Aaron says, and he manages to meet Eliza’s gaze.

She smiles, gracefully, replies, “Please, you must call me Eliza while we are at home.”

Aaron drinks from his glass in lieu of an answer.

Hamilton says grace, and they are free to eat.

Young William Hamilton speaks up as she helps cut up his food. “You’re always pretty, Mommy.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” she says. “There. Eat your vegetables.” She points with her knife to Hamilton. “You too. Burr eats his, like an adult.”

Hamilton grumbles, but stabs his fork at the green peas. Eliza and Aaron both have to stifle their giggles.

 

* * *

 

James Wilkinson is an unscrupulous man, and arrogant in a way that’s not forgiving. He’s someone who you want on your side — Aaron has made sure to maintain him as a comrade since he met him in the Revolution. During Aaron's time in office, he convinced Jefferson to appoint Wilkinson as the Governor of the Louisiana Territory and commander of the military. Mostly because Aaron thought that some good might come of it, later.

And now it has.

“The opportunity to act is now,” Wilkinson says. He is impressive in his General’s uniform, dreads tied back, posture tall. “Jefferson is ready to send troops led by me into the Territory for protection because of the boarder conflict with the Spanish. You’ve said it yourself that a well-armed and skilled military could snatch Texas, or even Mexico, away from the Spanish.” He pauses. “Perhaps, we could even take part of the Territory.”

Aaron sighs. “And, what? I become crowned Emperor?” Aaron isn’t so sure about this plan anymore as Wilkinson lays it out; its inception was before, in a different time. “I have my doubts of its success. I would not see my name dragged through the dirt again senselessly.”

“We could be victorious. You have the support,” Wilkinson says. “I’ve traveled the West and there are whispers of opposition that are growing louder. Soon, the rebellion against the leadership will be a yell.”

It’s hard for Aaron to believe that he has support when the majority of the nation still calls him a fiend.

“The Louisiana Territory is more than willing to have the protection of the British,” Wilkinson continues. “Contacts in New Orleans are ready to give you fifteen thousand dollars—”

“What!”

“—with the promise of more, if you agree to fortify their cause for succession. Then, the British will send their ships to us, and after that, it will be an easy win.”

The thought of people entrusting in him and following him is wonderful, he feels a flare of that _want_ and he sees long-sought for and deserved success close in his reach, but—

Hamilton is on the other side.

“Don’t you want to fuck Jefferson’s shit up?” Wilkinson asks, when Aaron hesitates.

Aaron bites his lip. Maybe he doesn’t have to choose between this, or Hamilton — and then he has a vision of him and Hamilton, leading a new nation, one they built on their own, together.

“I’ll get back to you,” Aaron says.

 

* * *

 

He does not have time to deliberate over how to ask it of Hamilton, because the opportunity presents itself.

Hamilton and Eliza come to him that evening, saying, “We need to talk.”

At first, Aaron thinks that it’s about him walking in on them having sex but Hamilton waves his hand when Aaron’s face becomes panicked.

“It’s not what you think,” Hamilton says. “It’s time to discuss how we are going to carry out our _plan._ ”

They go to Hamilton’s office, sit by the fire. All three of them do not look at Hamilton’s desk.

“It will not be easy,” Hamilton says, and he takes Eliza’s hand. “I do not blame either of you if you wish to back out.”

Aaron respects that Hamilton includes Eliza in the decision. The man has grown some damn sense, apparently.

“I do not know the particulars of politics,” Eliza admits, “but I do know enough that I am aware that it is an apparatus that can be managed.” She looks between Hamilton and Aaron. “I believe that the two of you are capable of this.”

Hamilton brings her hand to his mouth, kisses it, and shares a secret smile with her.

He turns to Aaron. “What do you say, Burr?”

“I should hope that by now, my words and actions have convinced you of my opinion,” Aaron says. This is something that he believes in — he _must._ “I stand with you.”

Hamilton blinks. “Yes. Good.” It’s as though he's still is not used to Aaron openly committing.

“Explain to me how this happens,” Eliza says. Her expression illuminated by the fire is superb — curious, strong, eager.

“There is an opportunity, in the West,” Aaron says. “I have contacts, who tell me that the new territory is prime for taking, and with an army we could—”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Hamilton’s voice is low, serious. “For once, I’m begging you to listen to me. That’s a bad idea.”

Aaron knows Hamilton is right.

“I want to be President not for the glory, but for the challenges,” Hamilton says. “I am up for the challenges.”

And Aaron sees Hamilton as a great leader, a power that cannot be contained.

( _That could have been you,_ Aaron thinks. But if it’s his true purpose to make Hamilton rise up, then he will concede to fate.)

It’s then that Aaron realizes — he’s in the _room._

“Two dishonored politicians,” Aaron says. “What more do we have to lose?”

“Anything. Everything,” Hamilton answers after a thoughtful pause. “But isn’t it worth it in order to form a more perfect union?”

“Always.” Aaron doesn’t add, _with you._

Eliza sighs. “You are both dramatic fools.”

“Only fools would be doing what we’re doing,” Aaron points out.

Hamilton shrugs. “As it’s said, _aut viam inveniam aut faciam._ ”

Aaron understands. He translates, “ _I shall either find a way, or make one.”_

It is the consensus in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title drop! If this were in acts, I'd say this would be the end of act 1.
> 
> Research™ Notes  
> \- [story about Hamilton and Burr](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/149196504242/omegalovaniac-philtippett-lessthansix) arguing about who was the one to scare the guy into confessing  
> \- [Hamilton paid for Philip's book after he died](http://publius-esquire.tumblr.com/post/137055612155/the-implication-that-hamilton-had-to-pay-for-a) is true  
> \- [the Burr conspiracy!](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/duel/sfeature/burrconspiracy.html) which is so wild. Short story is Wilkinson turns Burr in once the British don't help out and Jefferson puts him on trial for treason but he doesn't get charged. A lot of what's said he did is probably made up or exaggerated because of Jefferson.  
> \- Eliza did sit at the head of the table, so says a writing by James Hamilton  
> \- I'm not sure if Washington stood by Hamilton at his wedding in real life, but he does in the musical  
> \- anachroisms: modern matches, high-fives, other things  
> \- [the white dress Eliza wore at dinner](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/154019380347/omgthatdress-dress-1800-1805-museo-del-traje)  
> \- Philip Schuyler actually died in late 1804, not Spring 1805. But in the words of lmm when asked why he did not include the male Schuyler sibling, "I forgot."


	12. Alexander VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for sticking with me on this. I've rewrote portions of this chapter many times. Anyway.

It’s almost too easy.

They find their way. They don’t have to _make_ their way, not yet, because their narrative attracts — everyone wants to know about the friends turned enemies turned friends. There’s gossip — whispers of, _they’re working together after he nearly killed him, but I heard that Hamilton sabotaged Burr, so how could they ever trust each other? They deserve whatever happens._ They’re considered _scandalous._ Burr is apprehensive, but Alexander is glad; it means that people are attending to them. Watching. Alexander remembers what he was once told, _history has its eyes on you_ and indeed, it does — and history is a stern judge. Every moment is distinct, setting the precedent for the next. It’s unsettling. There’s that sinister hair-raising crawl up the back of his neck every time he goes out in public with Burr. Everyone (everyone, except their families) stare when Alexander and Burr are together. Like they still can’t _believe_ that they are a pair.

It doesn’t bother Alexander, however. He has nothing to be ashamed of. If they ( _they_ , the fickle public who can love you one moment and hate you the next) want a show, Alexander will give them one. He holds his head high and keeps a tight grip on his cane as he walks down the street with Burr, proud. Burr stays with him, his pace slow and leisurely — Alexander knows it’s for his sake, but Burr doesn’t make it feel like a hindrance. When Burr stands next to him, Alexander doesn’t have to wonder if it’s because Burr enjoys his company. He _knows_ Burr does. He knows, like how he knows that Burr is anxious to be the object of scrutiny — to the untrained observer in the ways of _Aaron Burr,_ Burr would appear as aloof and uncaring towards the talk surrounding them. But. Telltale signs reveal the particulars of Burr to Alexander. To him, Burr is an open book — and even though Burr desperately tries to slam the pages shut, Alexander marks the page, reads him, again and again — that tightening of his jaw that Alexander worries that’ll hurt his teeth, the dry witticisms that Alexander knows are self-derogatory, how he leans in closer to Alexander when it gets to be too much.

“Thank you,” Burr says.

“For what?” Alexander isn’t sure what Burr is thankful for. Discretion? Companionship?

“For not looking at me like you’re afraid of me,” Burr replies.

Alexander isn’t afraid of Burr, he never was. Maybe he should be. Maybe Burr should be afraid of him, too. What they could do to each other.

 

* * *

 

Alexander and Burr don’t gain ( _regain_ ) their popularity on their personal baggage alone — they earn it, because they are _good._ Things go their way, for once. Their law practice grows. Alexander continues what he was building, and Burr makes it better.

Defenders of peace and justice. Innovative.

They always were the brightest of their age.

Everyone wants to know them. Or, everyone wants to be associated with them ( _again_ ) now that they are prosperous and have something that could be of benefit. Alexander knows this, but, whatever. He gets to show those idiots who was right. Delayed gratification is fantastic.

He drags a somewhat unwilling Burr to parties. Burr is persnickety, and gives excuses to avoid going (he isn’t feeling well, he’s got a spot on his nose, it might rain) but Alexander ends up winning, as always. A guilt trip is always ready in his arsenal, and Burr is highly susceptible to it — as well as his puppy-dog eyes.

“You have to be _friendly,_ ” Alexander whispers to Burr when they enter the gathering — some shindig for Morris. He feels Burr bristle and go frigid beside him when the hall turns to them. There’s an audible murmur through the crowd when they notice Burr.

“Why should I give respect when it is not reciprocated?” Burr whispers back, grim toned, with an even grimmer expression. “They’ve already formed their judgment of me.”

“Then prove them wrong,” Alexander replies. “Don’t you remember how this works?” he asks, and steers Burr into the crowd while he’s still sputtering.

And yes, people do turn their nose up at Burr. They warmly greet Alexander while pretending as though Burr isn’t there. It’s easy for them to do when Burr _lets_ them, lets himself be shoved aside, forgotten, and yields to the belief that it’s better for others to have a neutral opinion of him rather than a negative opinion. Burr probably wishes that Alexander would allow him to fade into obscurity, but goddamn it, they’re supposed to be doing this _together._ But Burr looks so _lost_ , and Alexander won’t leave him alone — he thinks if he does, Burr will make a run for it and disappear out of his life forever.

“I believe you know Burr?” Alexander says, grabbing Burr’s hand and hauling him in front of the others, presenting him. “My friend.” Because these people may be Alexander’s friends too, but Burr is his companion.

And it’s a reminder to Burr that his place is with him.

The federalists share a glance, then back to Alexander and Burr.

“Friend?” Pickering asks, and the others mumble a consensus. They don’t attempt to hide their skepticism, that they believe Alexander is wrong. Batshit crazy. Alexander is about to lecture them about _if you trust me you can trust him,_ but Burr speaks first.

“Yes. Friend,” Burr says, wryly. He fidgets. “My friend Hamilton, whom I shot.”

Just when Alexander thought that Burr couldn’t get any more eccentric, Burr surpasses his expectations. He cringes, and he’s about to apologize for Burr’s behavior, but the tables turn — Burr considers the dumbstruck crowd and in that same sardonic voice of his, he says, “I thought that we might as well get that out of the way. That I shot Hamilton.” A flicker of a smile. “But haven’t we all wanted to do that, at some point?”

And then Alexander remembers that Aaron Burr is one smooth motherfucker. It makes him question if the human disaster act is a front.

He bites down on laughter brimming up from his gut as the others stare open-mouthed, as if they’re unsure how to react, but after a moment the men laugh, and just like that, Burr is accepted.

“You’re alright, man,” they say. Slap Burr on the back, shake his hand, offer him drinks, say, _Thanks for being the one to knock Hamilton’s ego down a few notches. I’ve nearly strangled him many times_ and _By the way, what’s Jefferson’s administration really like?_

Suddenly, Burr is interesting and valuable.

“See?” Hamilton asks, smug, when they leave the party. “I told you that it’d be fun.”

Burr scoffs. “About as fun as an interrogation.”

Alexander sighs. “Nothing can please you, can it?”

But it doesn’t go unnoticed that Burr is less grumpy that evening, and the next day too.

 

* * *

 

Alexander discovers Burr’s nightmares by accident — he had been going to wake Burr to ask if they wanted to go to work early, but when he was at Burr’s bedside he realized that Burr was in the thrall of a terror. He almost misses it — his hand already outstretched to shake him awake — but he notices Burr murmuring and slightly trembling.

He figures that it would be crude to not wake Burr, but he watches for a moment before he does. Sees his pure, unfiltered fear on his face, and Alexander longs to kiss the wrinkle away between his brows.

“Burr.”

Burr appears to be grateful when Alexander saves him from an unseen horror. He looks at Alexander as though he’s surprised to see him, sits up and rubs his eyes but doesn’t say anything other than, “What do you want?” — he’s probably too embarrassed to admit that he could be afflicted with something as human as a bad dream.

Alexander never mentions it, not when he wakes him up again and again from the dreams. Most times, he stops them before they get too bad, but once in a while he silently watches as Burr is tormented by his own mind.

 

* * *

 

Burr discreetly changes parties. It’s not a big deal when he does — it doesn’t even get a column in the newspapers. It’s a believable action for Burr. He had all but been kicked out of the Democratic-Republican party, and because of his tendency to straddle party lines he had been suspected of consorting with the Federalists while he was in office. So it’s not suspicious, which is exactly what they wanted.

Alexander tells Burr that he’s lucky he got out just in time because Jefferson is ruining the party.

And Alexander is lucky too, because now Burr is truly pledged to his ideals.

Things are working out wonderfully.

With that, step one in their plan for future executive power is complete. No — make that step two. Step one is for them to not want to kill each other. Or kiss each other. That has been an obstacle, too. Alexander thinks they’re past that, but then Burr will look at him with those dark eyes, look at him in a way that nobody else does and, well.

Back to step one.

Burr has been a problem since he saw Alexander and Eliza together, intimately. Not because Burr makes it a problem, but because Alexander creates it himself. It’s his own damn fault for telling Burr that there was no need to talk about it, because god, he wants to. He wants to see Burr squirm and say _I saw you making love to your wife_ , and he wants to hear how Burr’s voice would choke saying those words, and Alexander wants to be able to ask _did you like what you saw?_

Sometimes, Alexander kisses Eliza in Burr’s presence, just to see Burr’s reaction. It never disappoints.

It’s a problem, because Alexander could kill Burr over how much he wants to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

Their law practice thrives, and the flower that Van Ness gave them blooms.

 

* * *

 

The habits of their marriage have been established years prior for when they wake up in the middle of the night after their first bout of sleep. Eliza checks on the children while Alexander reads in bed, and when she returns (provided that Alexander doesn’t go to his office stricken with an idea, and writes until morning) they either talk until they quickly doze off again, or they have sex. Since Alexander’s injury, he would often turn over and sleep through the quiet time when he felt Eliza stir next to him, but now he’s practical with his alone time with Eliza.

Alexander curls around Eliza as soon as she’s slipped back into bed, kisses her neck and runs his hands down her front, gropes her breasts. She softly laughs, says, “Frisky,” but parts her legs when he pushes her nightgown out of the way and rests his hand at the apex of her thighs, begging entrance.

“Mmm. This is a wonderful dream,” Alexander mumbles, his fingers parting the thatch of hair around her sex and quickly finding her clit, stroking it with gentle motions. The sounds she makes are beautiful, a breathy gasp followed by an unrestrained groan that echoes his own want — he slides a finger into her and she holds his wrist, whines, “ _Alexander.”_

Alexander wonders how men tire of their wives because he never ever could. He wants Eliza, always.

He keeps his fingers buried in her and his thumb rubbing at her clit, and he’s content to bring her off like that, but he’s hard enough to rut against her thigh. When Eliza feels his hardness she looks over her shoulder and asks, “Do you want to?”

“Yes, please.” Alexander flips onto his back, shoves the blankets aside, pats his hips. “But like this.”

Eliza sits up, laughing softly as she rubs his belly. “My lazy husband.”

Despite her teasing, Eliza crawls on top of Alexander, straddling his hips and taking off her nightgown and tossing it to the floor. He hums, reaching up to cup her breasts, says, “But this gives me such a good view.”

Eliza takes his cock in her hand, strokes it to spread the precome around the head, and down his shaft. “You cannot distract me with compliments.”

Alexander huffs. “I just feel that I may not be able to perform to my full potential, if our positions were reserved.”

“Should I go wake Burr to have him watch?” Eliza quips. “You performed with plenty of vigor with his audience.”

His cock twitches in her hand, for reasons that it should not. “Do not tease me, Betsey,” he grumbles, because that’s _unfair,_ she’s using his secrets against him. She giggles, mocks his voice saying, “ _Oh, Mr. Burr,_ ” and Alexander groans. There’s a part of him that hopes Burr has overheard their nighttime lovemaking — they aren’t exactly quiet about it. Their children are heavy sleepers and used to it, but Burr…

“ _Ah_ ,” and Eliza is taking him inside her, holding him around the base as she sinks down. He looks up at her as she moves on him, and her blissed-out expression as his cock fills her is something that could inspire him to write poetry — _rapture breaks upon my dearest Betsey’s face in unrefined measure, secret revealed when she uses me for her pleasure —_ thrusts up because he isn’t _lazy_ , but she holds his hips and says, “Let me.” He whines, but permits her, revels in the feeling of her grinding down and that tight warm heat enveloping him, the warmth radiating all over as she says, “You feel so _good,_ I want to feel you—”

He comes, a back-arching toe-curling good orgasm. Eliza rides him through it, leans forward to kiss him, matches his labored pants. She lets out a small cry when his dick slips out of her, but then rubs herself on his leg. She’s so wet, and he’s aware that she hasn’t yet had her own peak — and that won’t do.

“Your turn,” Alexander says, grabs her ass, scoots her forward until she’s nearly sitting on his face. Her legs spread on either side of his head, her cunt open and on display to him. He moans, wrecked, seeing his release leak from her and he has to taste — eating out the taste of himself from Eliza is one of his vices. She shifts, giving him what he wants, and he says, “ _Thank you,”_ as he puts his mouth flush against her. He sucks, swallowing down salty slick, then licks and licks until she’s shuddering against him.

He pulls away for a moment, kisses the inside of her thigh. “I love you.”

Eliza rubs her thumb over his damp chin, tugs on his bottom lip. “I love you too, my Alexander.”

Alexander licks her fingers, gives her little love nips. Noses at her cunt, mumbles _god I love this_ against her, clutches her thighs and he can’t resist seeing her spread and wet in front of him — he presses his mouth to her and he is relentless, closes his eyes and licks her clit in broad, sloppy strokes in the way that he knows make her _crazy_ , and it makes him crazy too. He loves having a face-full of her sex, he loves the heady taste of her and he loves how she is unashamed, her hands finding themselves in his hair, tugging and saying, “Right there, oh _oh_ —,” and chokes out pleas and rubs herself on him, and he seals his mouth on her and sucks and she shakes all over, shouting and then there’s a rush of wet on his tongue that he eagerly swallows down.

After, Alexander licks his lips, content. Eliza puts out the candle, bathing the room in darkness, and then lies in the space next to him.

“Is that enough of a performance?” he asks. Turns over, kisses her neck. “Or am I too lazy?”

“Oh, hush,” she scolds, but Alexander can hear her smile. “Goodnight, my Hamilton.”

“Goodnight, my Betsey.”

 

* * *

 

Time passes, and not much changes. Life goes on. Aaron Burr continues to make the Grange his residence. He makes himself at home — so much so that he gets a _cat_. Not quite a kitten but not fully grown, fluffy, black with white markings on its feet like it stepped in white paint, and a persnickety personality to match its new owner. Burr claims he rescued it from James (and he couldn’t just leave it outside, not when the children are already attached to it, and he swears he’ll take care of it and it won’t be a bother) but Alexander isn’t so sure Burr didn’t pick it up himself.

But Burr is there at his home, and every night they go to their respective rooms saying—

“Good night, mister Burr.”

“Good night, mister Hamilton.”

—and he’s always _there_ , and it takes two months into two months for Alexander to realize that he doesn’t mind it.

 

* * *

 

Burr writes a piece: _The continued act for supplying the city of New-York with pure and wholesome water._ Within it, he condemns the failure of the Manhattan Company to provide clean water, and even goes as far to cite himself with neglect for his part in the botched plan. It is his written, public testimony to reevaluate the water system and in his own words, _fix it._

“I’ve never been more proud,” Alexander says. He is proud — the Manhattan Company has been a sore spot between them ever since Burr tricked him into backing the plan that upstarted the capitol for the bank Burr envisioned, but at the expense of a shoddy water supply.

Burr frowns. “I didn’t do it for your approval.”

“I know,” Alexander says. “You did it because it’s right.”

“I’ve only made a statement. I have no idea how to make it happen, there’s approval for funds and construction and—”

“Nobody expects you to personally lay pipes down overnight. You’ve recognized the issue and admitted fault.” Alexander lightly punches Burr on the shoulder. “That takes a lot of balls. Trust me, I know. I’ve owned up to some fuck-ups in my time.”

Burr glowers. His voice is close to a whine when he says, “But this wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t interfere in the first place—”

“Why can’t you take a compliment?” Alexander asks, interrupting. He takes Burr’s hand, slaps it with his own, closes Burr’s fist.

“There,” he says, shoving Burr’s closed hand to his chest. “The compliment is yours. No take backs.”

Burr smiles at him like he’s the most bizarre person in the world and — and Alexander loves that. He loves letting Burr be right and making him smile as much as he loves proving him wrong. He likes being the one who makes Burr feel these things.

 

* * *

 

However, he isn’t enough to satisfy Burr; he can’t give him _everything_ he wants.

Occasionally, Burr visits prostitutes. He never tells Alexander that’s where he’s going, but it’s painfully obvious. He comes back smelling like cheap perfume and sex, his clothes rumpled, and a little angrier than before.

Alexander isn’t a prude and he doesn’t judge Burr for it. As long as Burr doesn’t bring it into the house, he can do whatever he wants with his money. God knows he needs to bang out those tightly-wound feelings — but Alexander has developed an almost obsessive interest in Burr’s clandestine outings. How much does he spend? Is it the same woman every time? What does he do with them? Does he fuck them hard and without emotion, or is he a gentle lover? Does he cry? What is he like — what would it be like to have his mouth on him? Or the other way around? Would he allow it, if he asked—?

“If it bothers you this much, you should ask him,” suggests Eliza.

Alexander peeks out from where his arm is flung over his eyes.

“Eliza, be sensible,” he says. He’s fussed about Burr endlessly, and he knows that Eliza must be tired of it, but c’mon.

“I cannot outright ask the man, _Please tell me about your rendezvous with the neighborhood ladies of the evening, in detail._ ” He feels his cheeks flush with only the thought of it. “The man is discreet about his, uh, business.”

“Well,” Eliza says, “your crush on him isn’t very discreet.”

Alexander wallows in the bed, groaning into the pillow. Eliza pats his back, saying, “There, there.” As though it were simplistic.

 

* * *

 

It’s fun to frustrate Burr. It’s only fair, because Burr does the same to him, simply by being a temptation which he cannot have.

But it doesn’t hurt to trifle with Burr. He stays up late, talking with Burr and keeping him away from whatever (or whoever) else he wants to do. He gets drunk after dinner and lays his head on Burr’s shoulder, while Eliza shoots him scolding glares across the room. He wears his tightest breeches, cream-colored and tailored to hug his legs, and he bends over when he’s sure Burr is looking and will notice his assets.

He feels guilty about it, having these consuming thoughts about another. He shouldn’t, and he tells Eliza as much, but she finds amusement in his pining. She knows that he wouldn’t hurt her again, and this _thing_ with Burr is meaningless, so this is harmless fun for her, too.

So, Burr becomes his hobby. Tries to win attention while Burr plays hard-to-get.

Until he’s refocused.

“Are you certain?” Alexander asks Eliza, as though they haven’t gone through this many times.

Eliza softly smiles, has him sit next to her, holds his hand like he’s the one who needs the comfort and — that’s been the same, every time.

“I haven’t bled,” she explains, “and I’m queasy in the mornings and I have those headaches that I get in the beginning.” She pauses, smiles at him. “I’m with child.”

Reality strikes Alexander. Life continues on, indeed.

“But…how?” Alexander asks, his mouth dry. Eliza gives him a vexed look and he shakes his head, continues, “I mean, I know _how_ but — but we’ve been careful!”

Eliza winces. “Not really. There’s the middle of the night romps, then the other week when you came home early from work, the day when Angelica and Burr took the children to the fair…all day long,” she says, blushing, and oh yes, Alexander remembers that day too, “the time when we were in the garden and you were, and I quote, overcome with how I was more beautiful than the lavender.” She ticks the occurrences off on her fingers as she lists them. “It’s very possible.”

Alexander takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay,” he says, accepting it, and once he has, he feels tears welling in his eyes.

“I think you’d cry no matter how many we have,” Eliza says, fondly. She tucks a loose strand of his hair behind his ear, kisses him. He chokes, watery, and nuzzles his face against hers, places his hand on her stomach.

“You make me a rich man,” he says, and he loves her, that is enough.

 

* * *

 

When they announce the news that evening, the older children take it in stride — they’ve given up trying to feign surprise many pregnancies ago. The younger ones are a mix of excitement and pouts, thinking that they’ll have less attention.

Burr is congratulatory.

“Congratulations on fatherhood,” Burr clinks his glass with Alexander’s. “May the newest Hamilton be as spirited as the rest.”

Alexander drinks his shot in one go.

“Thank you,” he says. He pours another drink to calm his nerves; he’s always nervous until the child is born and safe along with Eliza. He worries — Eliza does everything else.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Alexander admits when the next drink is warm in his belly. “I love my family but… Fuck.” He sighs, sinks back into his armchair, realizing. “It’ll be five under the age of fourteen.”

Burr gives him a blank look, then asks, “Don’t you know how to pull out?”

Alexander flips him off.

 

* * *

 

The flower Van Ness had gifted them threatens to overtake Burr’s desk, with purple violets and greenery running over the edge of the flowerpot.

Eliza repots it, taking care to not damage any of the blooms. She places it back on Burr’s desk, says to him, “I think it grows so well because it’s near your sunny disposition.”

Alexander can’t stop laughing until Eliza swats at his shoulder, but then Burr says, deadpan, “I am a de _light_ ,” emphasis on the pun, and he laughs even more.

It feels natural, with the both of them.

 

* * *

 

One year _after_ , they return to Weehawken.

They decide to go on a whim. Alexander had been restless, and went to Burr in the middle of the night and found him wide awake too, and when Alexander said, “We should go,” Burr replied, “I was waiting for you to ask.”

Alexander promises Eliza that he’ll come back home, that he’s safe. She cups his face and says, “You need this.” Closure — he understands what she means.

Burr rows while Alexander sits on the other end of the boat, watching the New Jersey shore approach. The July morning is the same as the one the year before, hot and humid, the breeze off the water making it almost bearable.

If someone had told him a year ago on his deathbed, he’d be back here…

“What are you thinking about?”

Alexander turns to Burr. He’s breathing harder, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he works the oars.

“I was thinking,” Alexander begins, “if you had a gun in your pocket and you intend to finish the job.”

Burr laughs. “I was wondering the same about you.”

Alexander splashes him with water.

Burr holds onto Alexander as he gets his footing on the rocky shoreline, his cane getting stuck in the stones. They walk wordlessly to the clearing, too occupied by their own thoughts, their mistakes — Alexander can feel Burr’s unease, and he wonders if Burr can sense his too.

The dueling grounds look the same. There’s the place where Alexander stood, there’s where Burr stood, there’s the tree that Alexander shot into, there’s the boulder that he leaned against as he bled, there’s the place where Burr dropped his pistol and turned and walked away—

Burr kneels in the dirt.

“You were right here,” he says, and he touches the ground as though he could still see the blood, wipe it up, erase it from their past. “I thought that was the last I’d see of you.”

 _I thought it was the last I’d see of you,_ Alexander thinks. He thought the last thing he would see was Burr’s back, or the view of the sky as he lay in the boat on his return to the city, or Eliza next to him as he faded out of consciousness. But it wasn’t.

He stands next to Burr, squeezes his shoulder. “Burr…”

Burr looks up at him, eyes wet. “What if that had been the end?”

“But it wasn’t. I’m still here,” Alexander says. “You’d have to do a lot more than shoot me to get rid of me.”

Burr lets out a distressed sound that makes Alexander’s heart ache. He’s still feeling the pain of it when Burr grabs his hand, presses his face to his palm, and closes his eyes. He holds them like that, his lips brushing against Alexander’s skin as he mumbles incoherants.

“What is it?” Alex runs his free hand over Burr’s head, rests it at the nape of his neck. “I’m fine,” he says to soothe Burr, to calm whatever affliction it is he’s going through. No matter how much time separates them from their tragedy, it continues to torment Burr. “I’m fine.”

Burr whispers so softly, like a prayer, “ _Alex.”_

 

* * *

 

His recurring summer sickness strikes him in August.

Every year Alexander believes he can avoid it — beat nature — but the remnant of his boyhood tropical illness manifests in the hottest months. Over his lifetime he’s learned to manage with the illness, but it’s an inevitability that he’ll spend a couple weeks in bed as a fevered mess.

Although it isn’t catching, he won’t have Eliza tend to him due to her condition. She doesn’t need the stress, and he’ll have enough aid with Angelica coming by daily, and a nursemaid when needed.

Oh, and Burr.

“I think you just want to see me suffer,” Alexander says. He pulls the blankets around himself — the chills and muscle cramps have already set in. He has told Burr many times that there’s no obligation to look after him, he’s lived with it for many years and it can get gross. But here Burr is, at his bedside, holding a steaming teacup.

Burr sighs as Alexander suspiciously eyes the cup. “It’s tea. Drink it.” He sets it down on the table next to Alexander with a _clink_. “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

Then, Burr drops a book in Alexander’s lap, turns on his heel and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Alexander picks up the teacup and drinks; Burr makes too good of a cup to pass up. He opens the book, settling in to read until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up sweating, thrashing in the covers as he wakes from a deep sleep. He promptly gets sick into the pail he kept next to his bed, then flops back against the pillows, moaning from the pain that seems to come down on him all at once. In this moment, he regrets ordering Eliza away from his room because he wants someone there — he forgets every year how miserable this is. It’s odd how pain fades in hindsight.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he hears hurried footsteps outside his room, but it’s short-lived — Burr appears in the doorway, wearing his dressing-robe and carrying a lantern aloft.

“No, not _you_.” Alexander knows he sounds pathetic but he really wants some comfort, and Aaron Burr is about as comforting as a cactus.

“Hush, unless you want to wake the entire house.” Burr sets his lantern next to Alexander’s. The light illuminates his face, and Alexander sees the look of a man who didn’t realize what he was getting himself into. However, Burr quickly recovers, and regains his serious demeanor.

He puts a hand to Alexander’s forehead; it’s cool and feels nice compared to his clammy skin, but then he pulls it away. Alexander whimpers.

“You have a fever,” Burr declares.

“No, duh.”

Burr bites his lip. “Are you going to get sick again?”

Alexander shakes his head, then groans when the room starts spinning. Bad idea.

“No, but I hurt all over,” he says, “My headache is fucking _killing_ me and that’s the least of it — my stomach hurts and I’m burning up, it’s so hot—” he curls into a fetal position as he’s hit with another churning wave of pain. He’s hot, so hot, the sickness will take him this time, he’s burning up, he’s back on the small mattress with his mother and they’re both dying—

“Alexander,” someone says. Alexander blinks open his eyes, and Burr is at his side, but Aaron Burr has never been to Nevis, he’s not real—

“Shh, it’s okay,” Burr says, gentle, and then Alexander feels something wet on his face. A cloth. Burr puts a damp rag to Alexander’s face, cooling him, and that’s enough to startle Alexander into calm. He watches Burr’s face as he runs the rag over his forehead, each cheek, his nose. Burr is serene, those normally hard edges he wears, soft.

“You’re going to be fine,” Burr says, and methodically wipes Alexander’s neck and chest, turns over each wrist to cool them. He pulls the blanket up so Alexander’s feet are exposed to the air. “That’s it, just relax,” he says, “be quiet, breathe.”

Only then Alexander realizes that he must’ve been babbling nonsense in his fever attack. He would have the sense to be embarrassed about it, but he feels too bad and Burr has seen him in worse situations, so. He focuses on slowing his breathing as he focuses on Burr dipping the rag into a bowl of water and ringing it out. He gets a little teary-eyed at the sight, for some reason.

Burr places the cool rag on his forehead, then cups his cheek. He thinks he must be hallucinating that last part. That kind of makes him want to cry too.

“Sleep, Alexander,” comes Burr’s voice, so gentle, that it tricks Alexander into slumber.

 

* * *

 

He wakes to someone shoving medicine down his throat. It’s bitter and makes him feel sicker, but he’s too weak to fight.

He doesn’t ask for Eliza, because he knows she would come if he asked. But there’s one who he calls out for, constantly.

“Burr! Please, Aaron—”

“I’m here, Alexander,” and then there’s a hand slipping into his. “I’m here.”

 

* * *

 

One day, finally, Alexander wakes up and he doesn’t feel like he’s been run over by a herd of horses. Thank god — he’s through the worst of it, and can recover and get back to normal. Until next year.

He turns over in bed, and smiles at what he sees: Burr slumped in an armchair, sleeping, with his cat in his lap.

He stayed.

“Hey,” Alexander says, but Burr doesn’t stir. He grabs his cane, pokes Burr’s knee with it. “Yo, Burr!”

Burr snaps awake in an instant, his eyes finding Alexander. “Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out towards Alexander.

Concern. Huh.

Alexander props his cane against the table. “Yes,” he says, swallowing down lingering nausea — that should pass in a few days. The best treatment now would be a proper conversation, a distraction. He yawns. “How many days has it been?”

Burr sits back in the chair and rubs his face. “Um, three days,” he says, and starts petting the cat. It seems more of an act to calm himself, than the want to please the cat.

He continues, “Everyone has been asking about you. They’ll be glad to hear that you’re better.”

“Of course.” He watches Burr play with the cat, letting it paw at his sleeve. He has to admit, it’s kind of cute. “Do you have a name for that creature?”

“I do not,” Burr says slowly, looking at Alexander strangely. He probably thinks that Alexander’s brain is still addled with fever. “William wanted to name it Mr. Meow, but the cat is a female.”

“Plus, it’s a ridiculous name.”

“That too.”

The cat’s claw gets caught in the fabric. Burr scratches behind the nameless cat’s ear, and the stupidest grin Alexander has ever seen forms on his face.

“How about Cleopatra?” Alexander suggests. “She seems regal, to me.”

Burr’s smile grows when she flicks her tail. Alexander feels stupid, for wishing he’d pay attention to him instead. Maybe if he started writhing in pain again Burr would attend to him.

“Cleo,” Burr says, trying the name out. “I like it.”

If anyone had thought Burr is an unfeeling cold-blooded killer, they should see him now. Acting like an absolute fool, tickled pink by the furry animal nuzzling his hand. He’s actually _giggling._ It’s as unsettling as it is adorable.

Aaron Burr is the most wonderful man he’s ever known.

“Thanks,” Alexander says. “For—”

“There’s no need.” Burr looks up at him, finally, and — Alexander is indulged.

Burr says, “You’d do the same for me.”

It surprises Alexander when he realizes he would, and more. That he cares for Burr.

 

* * *

 

Burr keeps Alexander occupied when he isn’t resting. He knows that Burr probably does it for his own sake — to not be driven insane by Alexander going stir-crazy — but he appreciates it nonetheless.

(Even if it reminds him of when he was bedridden from the result of their Great Misunderstanding.)

Burr reads aloud from the paper, discusses cases from work, does anything to keep Alexander’s mind off his illness and the fact that he’s secluded from his wife. Eliza talks to him through the door every day (times where Burr makes himself scarce), but he is still lonely despite the kids and Angelica visiting with him, and Burr being there as much as possible.

Burr is more helpful than expected. He does things like bring in wood for the fire, which is a distraction all on its own — bending over to arrange the logs, giving Alexander an unintentional, but _fantastic_ view of his ass. It’s a bit unfair that he can look, but can’t touch. He thinks of making himself appear tantalizing (because he knows Burr wants him, he recognizes that particular _want_ within a man), but he knows that he’s not very attractive at the moment, still a hot mess, so he stays hidden under the blankets, frustrated.

 

* * *

 

“I swear you’ve grown in the two weeks we’ve been apart,” Alexander says, spreading his hand over Eliza’s stomach. There’s a tiny swell there, the beginnings of new life. She still wears her regular clothing — she’s not big enough to make a difference, but Alexander is a cartographer of her body, and notices any change.

“And you’ve thinned,” Eliza says. She runs her hand through his hair, kisses his forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I was miserable without you,” he murmurs, and kisses her neck until she squeals, _“Alexander!”_

 

* * *

 

Now, Alexander only wakes Burr from his nightmares when he hears him from his bedroom. It’s too difficult for him, especially when he overhears Burr whimpering his name, an anguished, _Alexander—_

 

* * *

 

November brings an early chill. It had been unexpected, as most things are in Alexander’s life these days — and he grows more anxious the closer one of those surprises nears.

“It’s going to be fine,” Angelica says, with that self-assuredness she has that’s even greater than his own. “You’d think you were the one going to birth the child.”

Alexander huffs. He turns his attention to the plants ruined from the cold, looking for what he can salvage from his garden. He’ll have to reconstruct his plans entirely—

Angelica hooks her arm in his and leads him, so he does not spend too long in one spot, fretting. She lets him lean on her for support — figuratively, and literally.

“I’m always nervous when a baby is due to be born.” He does not say, _this time, more so._ They are past the point where they lost their unborn one, but still — he worries.

“I’ll be here. For my sister _and_ you.”

She always is.

He leans his head on her shoulder, and heaves a sigh.

“I am an old man,” Alexander says. “A child, at my age! What was I thinking?”

“Don’t you know how babies are made?” Angelica replies, and there’s a glint in her eyes that makes Alexander’s face heat despite the crisp air biting at his skin. He looks down at his feet. Kicks a rotten cabbage. Smiles when she bumps her hip against his.

“The kids keep me young,” he says, after a while, and Angelica replies, “You act plenty young enough already, that’s what got you into this situation.” They laugh, and Alexander loves her; she always knows exactly what to say to him (even when he doesn’t want to hear it).

“What would I do without you?” Alexander asks.

“You wouldn’t be here,” she says, and Alexander thinks of it — without her, he would not be with Eliza, and without Eliza, well. He probably would have died a long time ago in the war, because he would have had nobody to stay alive for.

Angelica stops walking, and Alexander with her.

“I’m leaving after the baby is born,” she says, and Alexander thinks _no please don’t leave me._ She continues anyway, “We’re going west, to build the village in the land given to my husband.”

“Of course.” She has her own family, her own life — many times he has to remember that the world doesn’t revolve around him. Unfortunately.

“I’ll keep in touch,” Angelica says. Smirks. “And besides, you’ll still have Burr.”

Alexander pretends he doesn’t hear her. “I think these radishes are okay.”

He definitely does not want to speak of Burr with her. She knows him too well, and he fears she’d discover something that _he_ doesn’t even realize.

 

* * *

 

Wilkenson is arrested somewhere in Louisiana, on the suspect of treason.

Alexander has great satisfaction in telling Burr, “I told you so.”

Burr doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree either.

 

* * *

 

_“I’ve wanted this,” Burr says, “I’ve wanted you,” and he trails kisses down Alexander’s neck, and he shoves his hand into his breeches and grips him, and Alexander gasps, thrusts into his hand, finally — “Don’t you want me too, Alexander?” he asks and Alexander cries, “Yes, so much,” and—_

Of course it’s a dream.

Alexander moans in the pillow, tries to ignore the tightness in his pants.

“It sounds like you were having fun in your sleep.”

He turns to face Eliza, who is smiling at her knitting needles and a half-knitted scarf.

“In a way,” Alexander says. “But unfulfilling, and unrealistic.”

“Oh?”

He scoots closer to her, lays his head against her round belly. She’s on bed rest these last few months, and Alexander spends as much time with her as he can — rubbing her sore feet and ankles, sharing sugary treats with her, reading her favorite novels aloud, going down on her to ease her heightened libido. Occasionally, napping with her in the middle of the day, because he has nothing else to do. He loves this — devoting all his time to her. He regrets not doing this with all her pregnancies.

He feels like shit.

“I have a confession,” Alexander says. “My mind strayed from you.” He touches her bellybutton through the cloth of her garment. “I dreamt that Burr and I—”

“I know.”

“ _How?”_

Eliza rolls her eyes, sets down her knitting. “You were saying his name.” A pause. “With enthusiasm.” Another pause. “And you were humping the bed.”

“Well, that’s embarrassing.” His boner is definitely gone, now, along with his dignity. “You know that it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t?” Eliza questions, disbelieving.

“I often had dreams where I attended cabinet meetings naked.”

“And that didn’t mean anything? I know for a fact that you would have loved that. Showing off even more.” She laughs to herself. “What is it that men do? Measure lengths?”

Alexander sulks. “I’m _serious._ ”

Eliza sighs. “I know that Aaron is—”

“Don’t call him _Aaron,_ it’s weird.”

“…that Burr is an attraction to you and—”

“Oh my god, we are not discussing this.”

“—that’s okay, I think it’ll be good to resolve it than let it continue as is because you’re—”

“What are you telling me to do? Kiss him? Something _else?_ ”

“If it’s what you want.”

“—I hate his stupid smile and his stupid righteousness and his stupid cat and—”

“Alexander, please.”

He closes his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispers. He can’t, because it’s not _right,_ he shouldn’t desire Burr, for too many reasons to count.

“Okay.” Eliza runs her hand down his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Truly, she is the best of wives, best of women.

He feels the baby kick where he’s resting his face. He coos at Eliza’s belly, kisses it.

His heart is full.

 

* * *

 

The Burrs celebrate Christmas with them. Alexander loves it — his family surrounding him, and it has grown to include Burr and his daughter. They fit in perfectly. He watches Angie and Theo talk with each other, Al laughing along at whatever they’re saying, and he has a funny feeling in his chest at the sight of Burr holding Lizzie in his lap and letting her play with Cleo.

“You okay?” Eliza asks.

Alexander nods. “I’m wonderful.”

Burr gets each of the kids a present — which is a big hit with them, especially to the ones who were indifferent towards him — and he gives Alexander and Eliza a painting done by someone in town. It’s somber, but beautiful. It reminds Alexander of Burr.

“You didn’t have to,” Burr says when Alexander hands him a package. Eliza gives him an encouraging nod, and he opens it.

“It’s gorgeous,” Burr says, turning over a fob watch in his hand. Runs his thumb over the silver facing, clicks it open. He blinks rapidly, clears his throat. He looks up to them, focuses on Alexander.

Burr looks at him like he wants to say something meaningful, and holds the words in his mouth captive, like it hurts for him to keep them — but he just smiles and says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Alexander had seen him eyeing it in a shop window, and he wanted to show generosity for helping him when he was ill, and...

He pulls Eliza close. “We wanted to do something nice for you.”

Alexander thinks of the watch as a metaphor — a reminder that they have time.

Or something to measure it as it ticks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander is a selfish JERK
> 
> Notes!
> 
> \- Ah! The infamous, "My friend Hamilton, whom I shot" line - Chernow  
> \- Hamilton was not that great at poetry, and neither am I, it's awful hfuadj;  
> \- [Burr did make a company to help make NY have better water but...it was really bad and it was a way to get $$$ for a bank](https://www.bloomberg.com/view/articles/2012-05-03/the-violent-scandalous-origins-of-jpmorgan-chase)  
> \- Eliza did have a miscarriage, before William.  
> \- Cat Fan Burr is a fandom thing that I love  
> \- Hamilton did have a recurring illness every summer, due to him being sick as a kid  
> \- John Church (Angelica's husband) got 100,000 acres in western New York as payment for helping in the war. Angelica's son (named "Philip", lol) planned a village there named _Angelica_. Aww.  
>  \- Not really anything specific in this chapter, but [this letter to Eliza from Alex](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0902) is a Lot
> 
> ...and if anyone is keeping track, this is the first time Burr calls him "Alex"


	13. Aaron VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude, part two.
> 
> (What Aaron has learned about Hamilton: he comes to Aaron when it’s convenient.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here...and over 14,000 words. Yikes. I may not update as often as I'd like but when I do, it's a lot?
> 
> Many, many thanks to bluecarrot for reading over parts and helping make it not a mess.

**1806**

The newest Hamilton is born into the world in early February, a few days before Aaron’s birthday. It is the best gift Aaron could have been blessed with.

Theo wakes him at an ungodly hour — right before the sun has risen, the time he likes to sleep most — but nature waits for nothing. She shakes him awake, excitedly half-shouting, “It’s time!” and she does not need to clarify why — the house has been waiting for a week for Eliza to go into labor.

Aaron dresses quickly, not wanting to miss the occasion. He had offered to move out so he wouldn’t be an intrusion on their family with the new baby, but Hamilton told him there was no need and in fact, he _better_ stay. Later, Aaron had realized it was probably because Hamilton will be a wreck and need emotional support. If Hamilton sought that in him, how could he turn that away?

His suspicions are correct — when he joins the others, he finds that Hamilton is already wearing a hole in the floor, pacing back and forth, jabbing his cane against the floor with more force than necessary, making a _thud step step thud step step thud step step_ rhythm. Hamilton doesn’t seem to notice Aaron enter the room, or the flock of his children crowding together and watching him unravel, or anything at all really — he’s clearly preoccupied with what’s happening in the other room.

Aaron doesn’t blame Hamilton for his worries. He recalls when Theo was born, remembering the worry that did not recede until he heard her cries signaling she was alive and okay…but that worry was replaced with a new worry that he still carries with him, the fear that he’ll lose her one day. He believes Hamilton has the same worry with his own children; any good father would. He wonders how Hamilton can think of anything else with all that worry — especially when that fear became a reality for him, and lost a child.

“Burr,” someone says, and then repeats his name. He tears his attention away from Hamilton and breathes a sigh of relief seeing Angelica Church (although, he will always think of her as _Schuyler_ ). Thankfully, there’s someone else levelheaded.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Aaron asks of her.

Angelica regards him with a mild sense of disdain, like she’s mad that she has to settle for him. Aaron knows that she still doesn’t really like him, nor trust him — which is why he continues to think that she’s the smartest of them all.

She gestures to Hamilton’s direction, says, “Keep him occupied.”

They both look at Hamilton, knowing that is a more daunting task than it sounds to be.

“Any suggestions?” _Occupied how?_ Aaron wants to ask. He has a few ideas of his own, although they are not very family friendly. For example: taking Hamilton away into another room and kissing him until neither can think of nothing else, and seeing what could follow.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Angelica says, smirking, with that clever look that she always wears. Like she knows something you don’t, or that she could compel you into admitting something.

Maybe it’s because he’s guilty, but Aaron suddenly thinks that maybe she knows _too_ much about him, that she knows about the intimate matter between Hamilton and himself. It’s likely that Eliza would have shared the secret with her sister, and he knows that Hamilton uses Angelica as a confident. He imagines Hamilton telling her, _Burr couldn’t keep his hands off me, he kissed me!_ — another reason for her to be disgusted by him.

He reassures himself that there’s no way she knows. There’s no reason for her to know. It’s too shameful, something neither Hamilton would want others to know.

When he doesn’t respond, Angelica adds, “You can always shoot him if he becomes too annoying.”

Aaron manages a smile to be polite. It’s okay when he does it to himself, but the go-to joke about him and Hamilton is getting rather old and unamusing.

There’s a shout from the other room, and Hamilton lets out a whimper.

Yes. There are more important matters. Aaron postpones his upcoming melancholy until later.

“It’ll be fine,” are Angelica’s last words of confidence before rushing away to be with Eliza. Or possibly, she’s rushing _away_ from Hamilton. Aaron thinks he’d rather be facing the horrors of childbirth than Hamilton.

Aaron approaches Hamilton slow, touches his shoulder delicately, like how he’d handle a spooked animal. He stops Hamilton’s pacing, but it does nothing to temper his mind. He’s on edge, manic in a way that Aaron has never seen.

“Hey,” Aaron says, low. “Come sit down with me.”

Hamilton shakes his head, looks to Aaron — Hamilton is _scared,_ and it’s so very foreign on him. Hamilton is brave, verges on ostentatious at times to hide his anxieties, but Aaron has never seen him afraid. Hamilton has never _let_ him see him this way.

“No,” Hamilton says, “I have to— I have to do this—”

“All you have to do is wait,” Aaron interrupts. The midwife who delivered all the Hamilton children is with Eliza, and they can do nothing _but_ wait.   He smiles. “Although, I know you aren’t very good at that.”

“How can I wait when my Betsey is in there, in _pain_ , bringing our child into the world?”

Across the room, the junior Alexander pipes up. “Pops is always like this, when there’s a baby. He’s…” He makes a frazzled motion with his hands, and James supplies the blank with, “Weird.”

Aaron sighs. “Alexander. Please listen to me.” Rubs his hands down Hamilton’s arms, takes his hands in his. It doesn’t seem to faze Hamilton. “You’re freaking out the kids.”

That does. Hamilton’s eyes flit over to his progeny, and his expression softens. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Aaron coaxes Hamilton in the direction of the couch, and to Aaron’s surprise, Hamilton goes. He is what Hamilton needs. Steady composure. He can do that, for him.

Hamilton sits on the couch, but catches Aaron’s arm and tugs before he goes to step back. His grip on Aaron is desperate, fingers digging into his skin, and his eyes are even more desperate — wide, pleading. It’s a silent action, but it speaks volumes to Aaron, and he can never say _no_ to Hamilton, so he relents and sits next to him. Hamilton settles into his side, paying no mind to personal space — their thighs and shoulders press together, their warmth mixing. If Hamilton weren’t distracted with Eliza, Aaron would think that he’s purposely teasing him. But no — Hamilton seeks comfort, and Aaron is tempted to put his arm around Hamilton and pull him closer, seek some comfort for himself.

He puts his hands together in his lap to quell the compulsion.

The kids scatter around them, cramming as many of themselves on the couch as possible — Theo at Aaron’s side, Angie on Hamilton’s other, little Phil crawling into Hamilton’s lap — and the rest find other seating near them.

Aaron has never had a large family — not even when he made his own — so being surrounded by the Hamiltons is overwhelming, but nice. It allows the delusion that he belongs.

“She’s going to be fine,” Aaron promises, even though he cannot promise such uncontrollable things. Life and death do as they please. However, it seems as though the rules don’t apply to Hamilton. “They’re both going to be fine.”

“I know. My Betsey is strong.” Hamilton runs his hands through Phil’s hair, nuzzles their noses together until Phil giggles. The kid goes to grab Hamilton’s hair but Hamilton leans back in time, so Phil settles for pulling at the cream-colored ruffles of Hamilton’s shirt instead.

“Our children are strong, too,” Hamilton says, prying Phil’s small fingers off his shirt. He struggles with him for a moment, before giving up and letting Phil do as he pleases. “And strong willed.”

“I wonder who they inherit it from.”

“That would be from me _and_ Eliza.” Hamilton turns to Aaron and smiles, and—

—god. It never gets any easier. Having these piecemeal affections, but never enough.

“Did you know that my Eliza wrote to Washington during the war, requesting for me to come home?” Hamilton asks, and then he’s gone, talking, while Aaron listens. Hamilton is so proud of his lady. Aaron thinks of his, long gone, and it doesn’t hurt.

The wait continues for a few hours, Hamilton and Aaron keeping the kids entertained until they get restless. Phil somehow transfers to Aaron’s lap, asks for _Mama_ and Hamilton slowly explains what’s happening — there are tears when Phil realizes he isn’t the _baby_ anymore, and he buries his face in Aaron’s chest and cries.

“He’ll get over it,” James says, not even trying to hide his resentment of being a middle child.

“ _James,”_ scolds Hamilton. The kid shrugs and mutters under his breath, “I’m _just_ sayin’.”

Aaron rubs small circles on Phil’s back to quiet him. “You poor thing,” Aaron says. “Is your brother being mean to you?”

“Stop that, he’s spoiled enough already,” Hamilton says, but he leans in and blows a raspberry on Phil’s neck anyway. Phil’s sniffles turn to laughs, and he tries to wiggle away from Hamilton, clings to Aaron for safety.

With the commotion, it takes a moment for Aaron to notice Hamilton looking at him.

“You look good like this,” Hamilton says. His gaze is heavy, his smile going to his eyes too, like he’s in awe of Aaron and seeing something for the first time.

Aaron goes to ask Hamilton what he means, but he basks in the moment too long.

“I’m hungry!” wails William. He crawls into Hamilton’s lap even though he’s much too big for it — but Hamilton permits him.

“Hi hungry, I’m dad.”

Everyone groans.

 

* * *

 

“Eliza requested to see you,” Hamilton says, hours later. Aaron declines at first, because it isn’t proper to see a lady after childbirth, except for immediate family — which he is not.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Aaron says. “I barely know her—”

“Barely know her?” Hamilton barks a laugh. “You’ve seen her mid-coitus, that’s better than a ballroom introduction.”

“Alexander, _please.”_ Aaron has been trying to forget that incident.

“Actually, it’s possible you witnessed this child being conceived, so—”

“Okay, fine,” Aaron says, Hamilton drags Aaron into the room, literally takes his hand and pulls him along behind him like he thinks he’ll escape, even though Aaron assured him he wouldn’t. Aaron doesn’t resist, because it would be rude to refuse a lady after she’s endured such an arduous delivery, and has shown such kindness to him.

Eliza is sitting up in bed in a mountain of pillows, with blankets in her lap to preserve her modesty. Her hair is tangled and loose around her shoulders, her face blotchy and she looks beyond exhausted, but it’s the most beautiful she’s ever been.

“Congratulations on your new child, Eliza.” Aaron tips his head, holds his hands behind his back, stands a respectful distance away from the Hamiltons. “And Alexander.”

“Thank you.” Hamilton sits next to Eliza on the bed, moving gently so he won’t disturb the baby in Eliza’s arms, and then kisses her cheek. “We made it ourselves,” he says, and they laugh with each other, giddy.

Aaron can’t help but feel as though he’s intruding as he looks on at the new parents. Eliza’s smile glows as Hamilton takes the small bundle, impatient, like he can’t stand to be separated from his child for one moment. Fatherhood is natural on Hamilton. He holds the baby cradled in both his hands, one supporting the back and neck, careful, like he’s holding the most important thing in the world. He coos back at the soft baby sounds, smiles even more if possible, leans in and kisses their forehead, whispers something that only they can hear — a secret that they can’t understand now, but maybe will remember in a dream one day. He’s overwhelmed, a thousand emotions formed on his face, he feels everything so _deeply_ — and Aaron feels every single one of them, feels them tug at his heart, he never feels as strongly as when he’s with Hamilton. Impossible, lovely Hamilton. Hamilton is something infinite — how foolish Aaron was to think that everything ended with Hamilton. Aaron tries to justify to himself _what_ it is that he feels for Alexander, but then he notices Eliza looking at Hamilton in the exact same way and… Yes. That’s exactly what it is.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eliza says, and tilts Hamilton’s chin so she can kiss him. It’s too much — they’re both so beautiful, together and apart. They are definitely soul mates. The affection between them makes Aaron miss something, something he hasn’t had in a long time, something he long ago resolved that he’d never have again.

“I should be going,” he says, goes to leave before anything else can make him want to stay—

“Would you like a turn?” Eliza asks, and Hamilton is offering out the child to hold, and how could Aaron refuse that?

Hamilton — reluctantly — passes the baby to him, says, “Be careful,” and he is, so very careful. He’s forgotten how fragile newborns can be — he hasn’t held one this young since his Theo, but the memory is there. Holds them in the crook of his arm, runs his fingers through the dark feather-soft hair that’s definitely inherited from Alexander.

“You make good babies.” Cute, and they all grow up to be handsome. Without looking up, Aaron asks, “What’s the name?”

“Aaron.”

“ _What?”_ Aaron looks away from the child to Hamilton, sputters, “You… I… What…?”

“Chill,” Hamilton says. “It’s a girl. We named her after Eliza’s sister. Margarita.”

“Oh. Of course.” His face burns, embarrassed. “It’s a lovely name, and a wonderful tribute.”

In a sense, he’s relieved. He wouldn’t want a child burdened with his name — not that he thinks the Hamiltons would make him a namesake. However, if it were true… It would give him a purpose, to be better.

“Can I have my daughter back?”

Aaron touches her soft cheek, and his breath catches in his throat when she looks up at him with brown eyes that are too soon to say if they are her mother’s or father’s.

“In a moment.”

 

* * *

 

Aaron doesn’t see much of Hamilton the next day, or the day after that. He gives Hamilton the privacy for bonding with his family, and goes on about his schedule. He works — alone — and then takes lunch with Van Ness in the city, stays late at the office to make up for Hamilton being absent, goes home and has a late dinner with Theo as they talk ( _I remember when you were that small, my darling_ ), catches a glimpse of Hamilton when he goes to his bedroom (he overhears Hamilton softly singing a lullaby, and his voice is so _honest_ ). Aaron doesn’t disturb Hamilton — Hamilton hasn’t sought him out, so he won’t either — and he goes to sleep. Ignores the crying of the newborn in the middle of the night and ignores the instinct to make sure she’s okay. It’s not his concern. No matter how close he’s become to Alexander and his family, he isn’t a part of it.

 

* * *

 

What Aaron has learned about Hamilton: he comes to Aaron when it’s convenient.

Like on the evening of the next day, when Hamilton stumbles into Aaron’s room, unannounced. Aaron had been awake, reading by candlelight because he couldn’t put down his book — he’s at the good part — but he sets his book aside when he sees Hamilton.

It’s been quite some time since he’s seen Hamilton this exhausted — bone-weary to the point where even Hamilton’s will cannot rally through, eyes accentuated by dark shadowy circles, and simple things like walking across the room takes a concentrated effort.

“Jesus christ, Hamilton,” Aaron says, and yes, _Hamilton_ is the name he uses because he’s upset with him. It’s been a long, not-so-great day, and he was looking forward to a peaceful sleep where _nothing,_ except dreams, bother him. But that would be too convenient for Aaron. Hamilton shouldn’t do this to himself, he knows better — but then he remembers Hamilton isn’t his responsibility, so, “You look like shit.”

“Hey.” Hamilton sways slightly, leans heavily on his cane. “I’ve missed you, Aaron Burr.”

Aaron bites the inside of his cheek to keep an unexpected smile from forming. _I’ve missed you._ He clears his throat, looks away for a moment because _I’ve missed you too_ is right there on the tip of his tongue, but if he says that, he might say something else, and then…

“Have you slept at all?” Aaron moves over, pats the space next to him for Hamilton to sit.

Hamilton flops down inelegantly, as though he were only waiting for permission to do so. It jostles Aaron, and makes the bed squeak _, eek eek_. The noise is an annoyance that he’s used to; he could never do anything… _ahem …_ without giving himself away.

“I’ve rested some,” Hamilton says, like a child who refuses to admit they’re tired even when they’re dozing off. “I’ve caught a few hours here and there in my office.”

“So, hardly any at all.”

“I’ve been kind of _busy_ ,” Hamilton retorts, sharper than he probably would’ve if he weren’t so tired. Grumpy. Apparently, taking care of a newborn doesn’t get easier no matter how many trials you’ve had. He sighs, rubs his hand on his forehead — an indicator he’s working himself up to a headache. “I was just asking, you don’t have to if you’re going to be weird about it, so I’ll go if—”

“Ask _what_?”

Hamilton blinks. “Huh?”

Aaron shakes his head. “You did that thing again. Where you think you said something but actually didn’t say it out loud.”

“Oh. In that case,” Hamilton begins, “do you mind sharing your bed with me?”

“Uh…” Thoughts of the previous instance of them sleeping together come to Aaron’s mind — Hamilton’s cold feet, Hamilton’s scent and warmth pressed against him, Hamilton’s dark specks freckling his skin, Hamilton’s arousal rutting against his hip, Hamilton’s long thick cock—

Hamilton is rambling now, “Angelica is staying with Eliza, and the kids don’t really have room for me or want me bunking with them — I guess I’m not cool enough, or I snore or something, and I thought that since you’re all alone in your bed — sorry, I didn’t mean it like that — but I thought you wouldn’t mind, but that’s okay, I’ll sleep on the couch—”

“It’s fine,” Aaron says, and he’s thankful for his complexion or he’d be as flushed as Hamilton is. “You need to sleep.”

The predicament is understandable, as men do not share the bed with their wives while they recuperate from childbirth, and there isn’t an available spare bed in the Grange — naturally, Hamilton would only seek Aaron’s bed if it were a last resort.

“Thank you,” Hamilton mumbles, and it looks like he’s half asleep already, eyes heavy-lidded. Aaron takes Hamilton’s glasses off for him, stretches over him to put them on top of his forgotten book, lays Hamilton so he’s lying next to him, supine on the bed — in both senses of the word, flat and docile. Hamilton lets Aaron undress him, moves just enough for Aaron to slip off his waistcoat and take off his breeches, tilts his head back to remove his neck cloth. Pulls his shirt down so it covers him, far enough so it preserves both of their modesties.

Aaron pauses at Hamilton’s stockings. They’re extravagant and French-imported, knitted cream with navy blue embroidered clocks on the ankle — he still dresses as someone who has more money than he has. Aaron runs his hand down Hamilton’s right leg, stops at the garter under the knee, curls his fingers around it. Hamilton gives a tiny sigh of assent, and then Aaron tugs at the fabric, unties the neat bow. Hamilton doesn’t stop him. Hamilton looks up at him and says, “Go ahead,” and it’s then that Aaron realizes that he’s _stripping_ Alexander — he doesn’t think of that, he doesn’t think about how soft Hamilton’s thighs are when his fingers brush against Hamilton’s skin, he doesn’t think about how Hamilton’s thighs jump under his touch or how his breath hitches, he doesn’t think about how gorgeous Hamilton’s ankles are and _oh_ his feet are too, and he doesn’t think about how when he’s got one leg bare that he’s got another one to appreciate.

(Lies — he thinks about it all.)

He gets Hamilton down to his shirt, and then covers him quickly so he doesn’t have to see Hamilton lying there like _that_. Eyes shut, breathing deep, legs lazily spread and…

He extinguishes the candle, turns away and faces the wall. Hamilton must be tired, because he settles down fast and doesn’t say a thing. It’ll be odd to share a bed with Hamilton without his usual nighttime chatter.

“You awake?” Aaron sends the question in the dark.

A groan, and then Hamilton says, “I _was_ trying not to be.”

“Sorry,” but Aaron shouldn’t be sorry, because of the amount of times Hamilton has kept him awake at night, talking. “It’s just that… Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“Let me be the judge of that. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Aaron could make something up, simply say, _I wanted to say goodnight,_ but—

“It was my birthday today.”

“Oh.” Hamilton shifts next to him. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s no big deal,” Aaron says against his pillow, hoping he doesn’t sound offended. “I’ve had fifty birthdays.”

Fifty damn years old.

“Fifty?” Hamilton says, too amused. “You’re an old man, Burr.”

“You’ll be there next year,” Aaron begins, “or are you already? Eliza told me that you’re vague about your age — _hey!_ ”

Alexander Hamilton is a horrible man, whose best revenge is putting his cold feet against his.

“Asshole,” Aaron mumbles, edging away from Hamilton and his feet as far as possible. Hamilton chuckles, victorious — takes more of the blanket for himself as a spoil of war.

“Happy birthday,” Hamilton mumbles, and his breath evens out into sleep within a minute.

Aaron listens.

 

* * *

 

There’s nobody in Aaron’s bed when he wakes at dawn. There’s nobody drooling on the pillow. Nobody clinging to him.

Aaron would think that it was a dream, Hamilton coming to his bed, letting Aaron strip him down — simply wishful thinking.

However, when Aaron puts his feet on the floor, he steps on something soft (almost slides on it, falls) that confirms it. He picks up the strip of fabric.

It’s one of Hamilton’s garters. Dark blue and finely made, it feels nice when he runs it between his fingers.

It felt even better taking it off Hamilton.

He keeps it in his coat pocket, in case Hamilton asks for it back. Throughout the day, he keeps slipping his hand in his pocket to touch it, and his heart beats a little quicker knowing it had been worn by Hamilton — a filthy secret.

Hamilton doesn’t ask for it to be returned. Maybe he doesn’t know it’s missing. Maybe he forgot it, in a rush to dress when he woke before Aaron could find himself with a strange bedfellow again. Maybe he’s too shy about it, too.

Maybe he _wanted_ for Aaron to find it.

Aaron considers giving it back just so he’ll be rid of the thing, but that would make their precarious relationship even more…something. So he keeps it. Hides it in a blank journal. Out of sight, out of mind.

 

* * *

 

When Aaron goes to bed the next night, Hamilton is already there. He’s in his nightclothes which _good_ because Aaron can’t undress Hamilton again — although that was innocent, of course.

Of course.

He entertains the thought that Hamilton had been waiting for him, but he knows that Hamilton seeks only a warm bed. The possibility of placing him in an awkward position is a bonus for Hamilton, one that Aaron finds himself in too often with Hamilton.

Aaron climbs into bed with him, regardless.

Followed by Cleo, jumping onto the bed. Stands at the foot, meows.

“You’re in her spot,” Aaron says to Hamilton, nodding to where Cleo commonly curls up next to him. He’s quite fond of his pet cat. She never treats him any differently, no matter what he does. No doubt it’s only because she’s blissfully unaware of his failings.

Hamilton scoffs. “My comfort is more important than hers.” He shakes his legs. “ _Shoo._ ”

Cleo stares at Hamilton with her bright green eyes. Hamilton glares back — he doesn’t like her very much. It makes Aaron like her even more.

“Aww, come here, my poor baby,” Aaron says, saccharine, and he feels Hamilton go tense beside him.

“ _Baby_? Is my complaint unjust? Would you have me sleep at your feet — oh.” Hamilton turns to look at Aaron. “You were talking to the cat.”

Cleo — a good girl — steps on Hamilton’s chest as she comes to him. Aaron scratches under her chin. She purrs, and then wedges between them, lies down, flicks her fluffy tail, smacks Hamilton in the face.

Hamilton sneezes on Aaron.

“Disgusting! You did that on purpose!”

“I did not! _She_ did that on purpose—”

Aaron wins the argument; Cleo sleeps between them through the night.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton dotes on Eliza. There’s no denying he is a good and thoughtful husband, but Hamilton can be a bit much when his attention becomes obsessed. _Extra,_ Theo calls it.

Therefore, it’s not a surprise to Aaron when Eliza asks of him, “Please take Alexander away for a while,” a few days into her convalescence.

“Just for the morning. Perhaps the afternoon too.” She sets her cup on the saucer delicately, dabs at her mouth. “I’m sure you understand.”

Aaron understands. As he understands that Eliza had requested this early morning tea alone with him as a ruse. _I haven’t spent time with you, Aaron. I’ve missed our conversations,_ she had said, and he had agreed, because he’s missed them too — Eliza is a breath of fresh air. The awkwardness of him seeing her in an indecent situation a year prior has gone, him only thinking of her like _that_ when he overhears her and Hamilton having noisy sex, and that’s only because he knows what her face looks like when Hamilton fucks her (the incident where he got this knowledge, among other things — such as a good view of Hamilton’s backside — remains a blessing and a curse). She knows that he likes her company, and Aaron realizes that she can be just as manipulative as Hamilton. Clever.

Aaron stirs his tea, adds another sugar cube. “Why don’t you tell your _husband_ you need time to yourself?” He emphasized the possessive title, because who is he to them, besides the odd man who lives in their house?

“It’ll hurt Alexander’s feelings. You know how sensitive he can be about things like this,” she says. “Tell him that you need him for something.”

“And have me be inundated with Alexander instead?”

“I said _please_. And if I am correct, it’s not like you _don’t_ want to spend time with him—”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to.” Aaron smiles. “I’ll gladly occupy Alexander for the day. You deserve a break.”

They clink their cups together to make it official. What are a few more secrets with a Hamilton?

 

* * *

 

Operation Get Hamilton Out of the House is a success. One mention of, “Alexander, there is a matter I need your assistance on,” and Hamilton is ready to go out the door. If Aaron weren’t doing this as a favor for Eliza, he’d regret it. Hamilton chatters as Aaron hooks his horse up to the carriage, only stopping to comment that Aaron isn’t doing it right, but offers no assistance. His advice gone unsolicited, he resumes his previous topic, talking as Aaron helps him step up to his seat, shows no signs of stopping when they start their journey to their office.

Hamilton rambles on, and Aaron half-listens. It’s nice to have the company of Hamilton again, so much so that he realizes that he doesn’t mind the less enjoyable aspects of Alexander Hamilton.

“It is possible you could win as a Representative,” Hamilton says. “Mitchell and Tompkins are resigning their seats, it could be an easy win for the district.”

“It _could_ ,” Aaron says, looking sideways to him. “But it won’t.”

Their latest idea: for Aaron to run as a state Representative. Aaron accepted the nomination as the Federalist candidate because — why not? What’s another humiliating loss?

The Presidential election is only two years away — time flies fast — and it would be advantageous to have Aaron in place as a Representative in one of the most influential districts in the country when the election occurs. Thinking ahead for the future.

Aaron returns his vision to the road, away from Hamilton. He holds the reins tighter, and the horse picks up speed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Burr,” Hamilton says. “You earned some points speaking out about the water supply and the Manhattan Company—”

“Which I don’t even have ties to, anymore.” Aaron lost his position in that a few years ago, when he started losing everything. “The junior Clinton is the more favorable candidate, he has Jefferson’s backing, and he hates me — you know, the old rivalry between me and his father.”

Hamilton waves his hand as if to say, _no big deal._

“I believe in you,” Hamilton says, patting Aaron’s knee. He says it like he means it and — remembers when he said that to him, not too long ago.

By the time Aaron turns to him again, Hamilton is looking the other way at the city as it passes by.

 

* * *

 

He can usually control his impulses about Hamilton. It’s been nearly a year since they accidentally found their mouths upon each other. He hasn’t kissed him since, touches him only a little more than necessary, and he looks at him only when he’s in his line of sight. A year is long enough to accept what he has and what it will be.

But it’s long enough to perfect how he pines for Hamilton, and sometimes that is stronger than his resolve to not find him necessary.

Like when they’re in their office and Hamilton leans in behind him, his hand brushing against his when he points to something on a paper and they both jolt at the touch because no matter how much they deny it, there isn’t _nothing_ between them. It’s something very _very_ specific. They acknowledge it silently, separately, and proceed. Hamilton steps away and repeats what he had said before they were distracted (by each other), Aaron disagrees with him, tells him so, and it’s _fun_ — their form of foreplay, one teases the other, frustrates him until they give it back.

Aaron loves telling Hamilton he’s _wrong_ — Hamilton’s expression doesn’t change much, except for his eyebrows furrowing and the flicker of a squint revealing his slight displeasure. There’s a victory in that, for Aaron. Hamilton is someone who isn’t disagreed with often, he’s someone who is used to being told how exceptional and brilliant he is, and he disregards the ones who tell him the opposite. It’s a thrill that Aaron is the one who can _get_ to him. A privilege, one that he may abuse at times. But it’s Hamilton — Alexander — _Alex_. Whatever Aaron is inspired to call him at the moment, he is _his_ — his responsibility, he can’t let him go, and he can’t shake the feeling that he has to take care of him, make up for an injustice he left him with. He’s branded Hamilton, a scar on his skin, and he thinks, _good,_ because then others know too.

He could hate Hamilton, but then Hamilton looks at him in that irritable way he does that doesn’t fool Aaron at all, and he likes Hamilton, too much.

( _It rains, excessively_ — he knows the meaning, now, with another.)

There is so much about Hamilton that Aaron cannot tolerate, he’s proud and infuriating and too goddamn handsome for his own good. He’s carelessly handsome, with his dark eyes and scruffy face and figure that’s thin but curvy in the right places, and Aaron is infatuated.

“There’s something in your hair,” Aaron says, reaching out compulsively. It could be another excuse to touch him, like their hands brushing when going for the same paper, sure. He picks the fuzz from Hamilton’s hair — wool from his overcoat, most likely — and Hamilton’s hair is so soft, another damnable thing that interests him. He tucks a flyaway behind Hamilton’s ear, fingers caressing the shell of it. Hamilton’s mouth parts, but no words come out; he flushes a shade of pink but his coy gaze doesn’t elude Aaron.

Aaron puts his hands in his pockets. It’s a good thing he didn’t keep Hamilton’s garter there. It’d be too much of a temptation. It’s getting harder (many things are getting harder) with Hamilton.

“Thanks,” Hamilton says. Runs a hand through his hair, mussing up what Aaron just fixed.

Aaron itches to fix it again, but he restrains himself. It isn’t until they’re going home that he realizes that Hamilton might’ve been testing him, to see if he would.

 

* * *

 

Cecilia — at least, that’s the name she’s told Aaron — is a nice girl. Of course, he pays her to be nice (or _mean_ , when he wants her to be), but he likes to think that she’s a good person. Virtuous in her own capacity. Aaron doesn’t think badly of her based on her profession because, hell, someone has got to do it. Someone has to pleasure the lonely, horny men.

Including: Aaron.

He could delude himself that she is nicer to him than she is to others who pay to fuck her because he’s good to her. Doesn’t hit her (he’s seen bruises on her body, threatens who hurt her but she says, _no need, my sweet Aaron_ ), goes down on her once in a while (he even pays for the honor, because there’s nothing like pleasuring a woman with his mouth), tries to get her off when he fucks her (takes notice what makes her breath hitch when he moves in her), listens to what she has to say when they’re done (she has a son). She’s beautiful, tan skin and fiery red hair to her waist, nice breasts, an eager body, and she’s good fun for Aaron. Something to lessen his arousal. They’re sexually compatible, and she doesn’t ask questions when he goes silent while he’s inside her.

He’s visited her more since…certain events have make his urges more difficult to control. He usually thinks of her when he fucks her (never Theodosia, never) and she is always so tight and warm on his cock, or sometimes he zones out and thinks of nothing at all, or—

This meeting, Aaron fucks her from behind. Bends her over a table, takes her like how he imagines he would a man. Not that he’s thought too much about the logistics of it. Pushes her chest flush against the table so her ass sticks out, and he slides his cock into her cunt — not where it would go otherwise — and pushes forward, fucking her quick and hard. His hands go to her hips, thinks how Hamilton has shapely hips too and okay — there’s not really any pretense to this anymore.

He doesn’t say Hamilton’s name when he comes but he thinks of him, thinks what it would be like to spill into him, to have his skin sticking to his, to be able to mumble his name into his shoulder and have him moaning underneath him.

He pulls out, catches his breath. The sex has dulled the buzzing in his mind and alleviated the ache in his groin. Well worth the money, but it’s ultimately unfulfilling.

Cecilia is used to his varied moods; him coming to her in a frenzy, and quiet afterward. She sits on the table, spreads her legs, touches herself. Seeing her wet with his release, Aaron goes to his knees.

“Can I?” he asks, running his hands up her thighs. His face between her legs would get his mind off what he doesn’t have.

She smirks at him, hooks her legs over Aaron’s shoulders. _God,_ he can smell her and him mixed together and it makes his spent cock twitch.

“Sure. I’ll let you fuck me again if you make me come,” she says, adding after he looks at her questioningly, “No extra money. I want a good lay. Some dude earlier today just jerked off on my tits and left.”

“Rude,” Aaron murmurs, focusing her attention, licks into her heat.

She lets out a content sigh. “Anybody would be lucky to have you.”

Aaron closes his eyes. _If only._

 

* * *

 

Aaron slinks into the house late like the deviant he is, quietly takes off his clothes (again) in the dark of his room, and gets into bed. Thankfully, Hamilton is already asleep — Aaron didn’t want to have a conversation about where he’s been — so he’s careful not to disturb him. He lays facing Hamilton’s back because that’s the most comfortable side for him to sleep on, slowly pulls the blanket over himself, yawns, and closes his eyes.

Their nights have been chaste, each keeping to their side of the bed — it’s bigger than the ones they were forced to share previously on the road, big enough so Hamilton isn’t able to grab ahold of him in his sleep. He’s still a fitful sleeper with his tossing and turning, keeps Aaron awake to _chat,_ and leaves drool marks on the pillowcase, but it’s manageable, and Aaron remembers, temporary.

“You smell like sex.”

Aaron’s eyes snap open. “You were awake.”

The mattress shifts with Hamilton turning over, winding the blanket around himself and tugging it off Aaron in the process. Aaron tugs his allotment back. In the moonlight coming in from the window, he can see a hint of Hamilton’s frown.

“You got laid tonight,” Hamilton says. Whines, really. “You reek of it.”

“So?” Aaron had washed off with a damp cloth before he left, so he knows Hamilton is exaggerating. He figures Hamilton is jealous that he isn’t getting any himself. Which, good. Let him be frustrated. It serves him right for making him so hung up on him.

“Is it a whore you’ve been with?” Hamilton asks, bluntly. It sounds as though he had been preparing the question all night as he was waiting for Aaron to come to bed. It’s not what Aaron had expected; he thought that they would continue their _not talking about anything intimate_ pact.

Aaron’s eyes have adjusted to the dark and he can see Hamilton clearly — blanket tucked up under his chin, bed-tousled hair a mess on the pillow, a hard gaze that demands an answer. Aaron could lie, say that he’s met someone, but that isn’t a less complicated answer, so.

“I don’t know how that’s any of your business,” Aaron responds. There. Make Hamilton feel as though he’s encroached on his privacy. “I don’t know why you’d care if I fuck a whore.”

Hamilton shifts. Uncomfortable.

“Why do you see her?” Hamilton asks, and Aaron laughs, says, “ _Why?_ Don’t you know what they do?”

“I _know_ what happens in a whorehouse,” Hamilton says, and if there were more light in the room, Aaron could guarantee that Hamilton would be blushing. “I don’t mind that you hire one, but I was going to ask… I meant, are you going to one because of…”

Hamilton’s voice trails off. Aaron probes, “Because why?”

“Nothing.” Hamilton flips over, faces away from Aaron. “Forget that I brought it up.”

“Sure.” Like they forget about everything else. Aaron doesn’t know what Hamilton was asking, but if it was, _are you visiting prostitutes because of me?_ then the answer would be, _I’m not sure._

 

* * *

 

Aaron goes to Hamilton with the intention to apologize, because things cannot become more strained between them. He’s kind of angry, if he’s honest — what right does Hamilton have to judge him? It’s not like Hamilton is the exemplar of moralism, and he has no claim to Aaron or what he does; he’s made it clear that he has no interest in him, and even he did, he _couldn’t_.

He’s going to tell Hamilton this, tell him, _if we can’t settle this I’ll leave and never talk to you again_ , but he doesn’t really want to say that because he isn’t sure how Hamilton will react, and if Hamilton calls his bluff — it might be for the best to be apart, than have this uncertainty.

His plans are foiled, however.

“Oh, hey,” Hamilton whispers, looking up at Aaron. In his arms he holds his newborn, and Aaron can’t be mad at him. Damn him.

Aaron sits next to Hamilton. Rita — the nickname they’ve given the baby — is asleep, snuggled up against Hamilton’s chest. Aaron can’t decide who looks more adorable: her, or Hamilton who looks at her like she hung the moon.

Aaron ends up apologizing instead. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “It’s fine. I was being…” He shrugs, doesn’t finish the thought. “It doesn’t matter.”

It is the proper answer, of course, but not the one Aaron wanted to hear. He wanted to hear, _There’s no need to sleep around, what about me?_

Ridiculous.

“You look good like this,” Aaron says. Hamilton always looks good, but this is different. It’s another facet for Aaron’s ongoing study of all things Alexander Hamilton. Every element that makes him _Alexander_ gets stored away — every expression, every phrase he utters, every moment. There is so much of Hamilton that he doesn’t want to neglect anything of him. It is so fixated within Aaron that it would be impossible to be without Hamilton without losing a part of himself, too.

The way Hamilton looks at him now — mouth hitched into a grin with his eyes shining, peculiarly, like he’s figuring out something about Aaron too — is added to the secret compendium.

“Would you like to hold her?” Hamilton asks, and before Aaron can respond, he hands Rita off, gently transferring her into Aaron’s arms. She stirs, her little eyelids fluttering and she lets out a fussy noise, but Aaron hums and rocks her softly, and she quiets back down.

It isn’t a disappointment that he and Theodosia didn’t have more children. One was enough. Theo is the greatest blessing in his life, his true legacy, and selfish as it is, he knows that he wouldn’t be able to love another child of his own as much as he loves his daughter. She has priority in his heart.

However, he thinks that all children are wonderful. Especially the youngest Hamilton. He touches her tiny hand, and in her sleep she grasps his finger on reflex.

Aaron melts.

Hamilton puts his arm around Aaron, rests his chin on Aaron’s shoulder, looking on at the scene. Hamilton is naturally an affectionate person, so _touchy_ — hell, the first day Aaron met him, he was hanging on him that evening in a pub — but still, his pulse jumps.

“You look good like this,” Hamilton says, and it _feels_ good, and Aaron could almost pretend that it can stay like this forever.

 

* * *

 

He’s not stupid. He knows it won’t last. It’s difficult to not get attached. He doesn’t realize how attached he is until one afternoon when he and Hamilton are in the garden — giving Eliza some more alone time, not that he minds occupying Hamilton — and the youngest Hamilton boy comes running towards them, crying a wailing, “daddy!” It’s a natural tendency for Aaron to step forward to an upset child, especially one who he knows and cares for.

But it’s not his place, so he stands to the side as Hamilton kneels and holds his arms out to take Phil into a hug. The kid almost knocks Hamilton over, but Hamilton holds him like he won’t ever let him go.

It’s difficult to understand Phil through his tears, but he gets out, “James pushed me,” and he points to his knee. It’s scraped and bleeding a little, but overall harmless.

Hamilton, however, goes overboard in his coddling. He wipes Phil’s face with his sleeve and says, “James was being mean to my little guy, huh?” and Phil nods and clings to Hamilton. It’s a sweet moment between father and son, and it’s probably not so much about his injured knee but the fact that he feels a little neglected with the new baby. It’s probably something Hamilton is used to. He continues to say comforting things and pats Phil’s back until his sobs turn into sniffles. He detaches himself, uses his cane to stand.

“Carry me!” Phil holds his arms up with grabby hands. He’s truly a Hamilton, exploiting opportunities as much as possible.

Aaron doesn’t think he’s seen Hamilton look sadder when he has to tell Phil, “I can’t.” He gestures at himself, says, “You know I can’t and walk that far to the house.”

Phil’s lip quivers. Tears are imminent to return.

“Can you?” Hamilton asks Aaron.

Two Hamiltons look at him, pleading.

“Of course,” Aaron says, and he picks Phil up and settles him on his hip. Phil lays his head on his shoulder and sighs, apparently all cried out. As they walk back to the house, Hamilton reaches up to ruffle Phil’s hair.

“You’re going to be okay,” Aaron says. Phil sniffles, nods.

“Are you my uncle?” he asks. Sniffles again.

“Uh.” It’s an innocent question from a child, but it alarms Aaron — he is not their family, not matter how much he plays the charade. He looks sideways to Hamilton, who gives no indication of what to say.

“No, I’m not,” Aaron says. He feels Phil sigh against him.

“Oh.” Phil sounds sad, disappointed even, letting out a small whine as he holds onto Aaron tighter.

It makes Aaron sad, too.

Later, after they’ve cleaned up Phil’s scrape and Hamilton has tracked James down (hiding behind the piano) and properly scolded him, they share a drink.

Hamilton says, “Thanks for helping, Burr.”

“No problem.” Aaron hesitates, adds, “I like helping your family.”

Careful not to seem too eager.

“You know,” Hamilton says, “you could have told him _yes_.”

Aaron pretends that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is dreaming.   A nightmare — Aaron is familiar with them himself. His pained mutterings had woke Aaron up. Aaron can’t make anything out, just _no no no_ and whines. What does he dream of? Of death, of loss, of Aaron aiming at him with a gun?

In his half-sleep state, Aaron acts on instinct, habit, the best way to calm Hamilton — being close, offering the comfort of his body. They’ve done it before, and he’s sure Hamilton wouldn’t object. He presses against Hamilton’s back, curls around him, so they’re like two spoons in a drawer. He puts his arm over Hamilton’s waist. It feels right.

“It’s okay,” Aaron says, “I’m here,” and Hamilton quiets, his panicked noises turning into soft sleep mumbles. His chest rises and falls. He snores, and Aaron smiles. Hamilton is so warm, so pretty, so inviting, and Aaron is so tempted — for what, he doesn’t understand. These thoughts he has of another _man—_

 _Jonathan would know,_ floats into his mind. Is this what Bellamy spoke of in his correspondence? _My thoughts of you changed to something more tender; but I won’t waste paper_ , Bellamy had wrote him many years ago and, oh, he wishes that Bellamy did waste the paper, he wishes he wrote pages and pages to help navigate this — this heartache! Bellamy was older, wiser to things that Aaron did not know. Did Bellamy have these torrid sensibilities for Aaron, and did he see the beginnings of them within Aaron? Did Bellamy recognize it within him, that he could crave the body of a man, to _want_ him? Because he does, ardently. It’s been a year and Aaron’s attraction to Hamilton haven’t faded — thoughts of Hamilton possess his mind. He likes him when he’s gorgeous in his best outfit and he likes him when he playfully bickers with him, he wants to touch Hamilton with purpose and he wants Hamilton to touch him back. Hamilton has him enthralled—

Is this what Bellamy felt like?  Did Bellamy ache for him, without hope?

Jonathan, his almost only friend — he loved him and he could have loved him more if he had the time — but he died, like everyone else, everyone except—

Hamilton. His almost…

Aaron holds him tighter, and is deprived of a nights sleep, contemplating.

 

* * *

 

Through his contemplations, he realizes his problem: he has not discussed it with Theo.

Aaron gets her away from all the Hamiltons, and tells her all of it. She knows part of it already — that he has a significant fondness for Hamilton — but the rest he’s withheld because he wanted to protect her from the shame of feelings that he should not have.

However, he must have her counsel, he has to tell _someone_ or else he thinks he’ll do something rash and make everything worse. He tells her how his fondness for Hamilton grew into something, something that would possess him to _kiss_ the man, and he tells her of everything after, of how _nothing_ happened after but, in fact, everything has happened. He’d say _too_ much has happened, but he could never have Hamilton too much, in excess — he’d always want more. Fervent glances and restrained touches aren’t enough, and Hamilton’s wavering interest makes Aaron want him all the more. He tells her how he lusts for Hamilton, _wants_ him, in the most untoward way — but it’s Hamilton’s fault with his lovely legs that lead up to his lovely other parts, his dark bright eyes, and that exquisite sinful mouth. He wants him. He tells her that perhaps, he has wanted Hamilton all along, but didn’t know until their kiss awakened something inside of him.

“And I am ruined,” Aaron concludes. “You must think your father a stupid, reprehensible, pathetic man.”

And Theo, his sweet daughter, smiles and takes his hand.

“On the contrary,” she says. “I think you’re a brilliant, honest, wonderful man.”

“Only you think that.” Aaron’s hand twitches against Theo’s. “How can you be so casual about what I’ve told you?”

“It’s not like I’m surprised,” Theo says.

Aaron thought he had been hiding it so well.

Theo rolls her eyes. “I knew you must’ve really _really_ liked mister Hamilton to put up with him as you do—”

“Touché.”

“—and I’m not stupid, I have eyes. I see how you are with him.”

“ _Theo._ ”

“It’s not uncommon to be attracted to someone of your same sex—”

Aaron promptly ends the conversation. Or tries to.

“Do you have anything you’d like to share with me?” Aaron quizzes, hoping to divert the conversation. “About a certain A-dot-Hamilton of your own?”

A rush of magenta floods Theo’s cheeks.

“No—” she pops up from her seat “—nothing to share,” she says in a way that suggests the very opposite of that.

“You know you can tell me anything—”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re too smart for me.”

“You’re still deflecting,” she says. She crosses her arms in front of her. “How do you know that he doesn’t feel the same?”

“He doesn’t.” _He can’t_ , Aaron thinks.

“I’m sure he finds your stoicism very charming.”

“It’s one of my best attributes.”

Smirking, Theo says, “I’m sure.” She sighs, exasperated. “He flirts with you, I’m sure you’ve realized.”

He’s noticed. But coy smiles, innuendo, asking to be stripped of his stockings — Hamilton means nothing by it. It’s good fun. It can’t be helped that Aaron wants something more than what he wants to offer.

She straightens his necktie, lectures him. “In my opinion, you could do better than Hamilton.”

That’s debatable — he and Hamilton are an equally matched mistake — but it’s comforting nonetheless. He laughs, and amazingly, he feels better.

 

* * *

 

He feels better, until Hamilton does not come to his bed that night. Angelica leaves, and everything returns to normal, and he is so _so_ lonely.

 

* * *

 

Another month passes, and then Aaron wishes the next month could be skipped all together. The election for state Representative begins in late April, and it’ll be three miserable days until the results are known. It’s long enough to ruminate over the second thoughts he has; he has mixed feelings about associating himself with Hamilton — what if they were to split, again? And he isn’t exactly sure what he’d do if he does win. Overall, he is still thinking that this is a terrible idea. There must be other ways.

His assessments are proven correct. He considers withdrawing his name from the ballot on the very first day the polls are open. Someone accosts him on the street — they pass as Hamilton is busy locking up the office for the night, spits at Aaron’s feet and calls him, “ _Fink.”_

Hamilton laughs, big and dazzling, wonderfully awful but awfully wonderful but Aaron shrugs it off. It’s by far not the first time he’s been verbally harassed on the street. He’s used to others expressing what they think of him. They keep doing it, like it matters — even when he changes, he’s criticized for that too. He knows that it’s more about disliking him for who he is than for what he does. But he welcomes their unwelcome opinion. It’s amusing and, in a way, it’s flattering that there are such strong opinions of him. It means that he leaves an impression. Is formidable.

 _That’s something Alexander would say,_ Aaron thinks with a smile, but then realizes with dread, _that’s something Alexander would say._ He isn’t sure if it was within him all along or if he’s just a poor imitation of Hamilton. Either way, Hamilton has influenced him — harvesting Aaron’s strength because he knew where to find it or spreading his own like wildfire — and Aaron is caught wondering if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

It must be bad to want someone this much, but Aaron feels so _good._ A sin, and Hamilton causes him to commit the worst of them. He’s proud of what he has with Hamilton and he wants to brag _you don’t have him like I do_ , but he wants more of him, he’s greedy, wants everything of him, he wants his mind and his body, the latter making lust flow through his veins. He takes what he can get, indulges himself, Hamilton is his gluttonous habit. No matter how much he likes him it’s _Hamilton,_ and he infuriates Aaron, nobody makes him angrier — he’s angry of what Hamilton makes him feel and he’s angry because he’s envious that he’ll never have what he has, but most of all, he’s angry because it’s so _easy_ with Hamilton. It’s comfortable and it shouldn’t be, and he is struck with an idleness to let it be because he doesn’t want to think about how bad it is—

—but Hamilton has always made Aaron want what’s not good for him.

“That’s better than being called a murderer, yes?” Hamilton asks, with that awful and wonderful smile. It takes Aaron a moment to understand, because he was lost contemplating Hamilton, but then remembers being insulted by a stranger. Yes, it’s been a while since Aaron has been called a murderer — albeit, for a crime that didn’t happen. Hamilton isn’t dead, he’s right there, breathing and so striking, so close that he could…

Hamilton laughs again, awkwardly, and Aaron knows his deception well enough to know it’s forced. Hamilton pulls his handkerchief from its hiding place inside his pocket and holds it out to Aaron. “Here.”

Aaron stares at the handkerchief. It’s pretty, white silk and monogrammed _A.H._ in gold at the corner _,_ and it looks as though it’s never been dirtied.

“Do you expect me to cry?” Aaron asks, his voice flat, because Hamilton isn’t funny, not always, but Hamilton sighs and motions to Aaron’s feet. Aaron looks down at where he’s indicating and _ugh_ , there’s spittle on his shoe, gleaming on the buckle.

Aaron bends over, and uses his own handkerchief to wipe his shoe clean. It’s disgusting, and thinks he’ll either toss the cloth when he gets home — in hindsight, it would’ve been less demoralizing to leave the mess than stoop to remove it. He’s sure Hamilton finds this _hilarious_ and he glances up at him, but instead of a trademarked smirk, Hamilton is looking at him with a queer expression. Head tilted, biting his lip, face red — due to the change in weather most likely, it’s been warmer in the last week — and he’s not meeting Aaron’s eyes. Very strange. Aaron stops the circular scrubs on his shoe, fully enthralled in looking at Hamilton look at him.

Hamilton keeps staring and biting his lip but then he must notice that Aaron has noticed him, because he drags his eyes up to Aaron’s, away from his… _oh_. Aaron feels the heat of Hamilton’s gaze on his body, and he should look away, not acknowledge this, but then Hamilton _winks_ at him and goddamn it all.

Hamilton stuffs his pretty handkerchief back into his coat pocket, forcefully, like he’s annoyed. Why? Because he’s offended Aaron didn’t take his offering? Or is he frustrated for another reason? Aaron squints — the setting sun is in his eyes, but Hamilton tall above him is also a dazzling, blinding sight, and Hamilton is still looking at him in that strange way.

Aaron stands, straightens his coat. Composes himself. Even at his full height and Hamilton’s lean on his cane, Hamilton is a couple inches taller than him. Hamilton carries it well.

Hamilton laughs — that awkward nervous one again — and Aaron hates it. He’s feeling like this day can’t get much worse, he’s in a tetchy mood and Hamilton’s laughter feels hostile instead of friendly like it usually is and why is he so damn short and he got fucking spit on by a stranger who he did _nothing_ to and Hamilton has the audacity to offer his handkerchief to him like he’s some helpless maiden. He knows that Hamilton doesn’t intend to make him feel like shit — hopefully doesn’t — but sometimes, they clash, and the closest person to blame is each other.

“Give it another day,” Aaron says. “I’m sure lots of people want to tell me how contemptible they find me, and you’ll have your amusement at my expense.”

“ _Burr,_ don’t be like that…” Hamilton pleads, and how dare he, how dare he say his name like a purr, beguiling.

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “They’ll tire of me like before, and I’ll be forgotten once again. I’ve only angered the masses by reminding them I exist.”

He’s a lost cause. Hamilton doesn’t see it that way. Hamilton has high hopes — impossible aspirations as always — and Aaron understands why he keeps them aloft in the clouds because usually, things work out for Hamilton. The man either has a direct line to above or a barter with the devil. But Aaron isn’t so sure about himself.

“The voice of one objector is not that voice of many,” Hamilton tells him, and Aaron replies, “It depends who the one person is.” The meaning is there, unspoken. One voice, Hamilton’s voice, changed his future before. Aaron doubts that he can again — ruining a man is easier than making him.

Failure is in his future — again — and he’ll fail Hamilton too, and he’ll finally see how he’s made a mistake investing himself in Aaron. It worries Aaron, all the _what ifs._

He thinks of the _what ifs_ as he goes home, and he knows he isn’t pleasant company with his grumpy attitude. He snaps at Hamilton when asked if he wants to stop for a quick beer ( _no, he does_ not _, he’s not a lazy drunkard_ ), and Hamilton mouths _okay then_ and is silent for the rest of the ride. Once they arrive home, Aaron walks ahead of Hamilton and he knows it’s rude because Hamilton can’t go that fast but he needs to be _away_ from him.

“Hey, Papa — oh,” Theo greets him, but then promptly goes the other direction when she sees that he’s in one of _those_ moods. Which is fine, he wants to be left alone anyway, he doesn’t need anyone.

Everyone avoids him, everyone except Eliza. She approaches him slowly, baby in her arms, and smiles at him genuinely, doesn’t mention his sour mood at all, and asks, “Would you like a break?” and actually, that sounds lovely. Her relaxed company is exactly what he needs.

She leads him to the living room, and he lets go a bit — paces the room, keyed up. It’s just Eliza and the baby in the room with him, both people who wouldn't tell anyone. Eliza is considerate and doesn’t do things to embarrass him, and Rita is a baby who doesn’t know of his worries or of the worries of the world. To her, politics is meaningless, and Hamilton is her loving father who sings to her and gives warm cuddles.

Eliza is skilled at calming him down. He guesses it’s learned from being married to Hamilton, and having raised many children with his spirited blood. She doesn’t press him to talk, just sits him down and before he can object, she hands him Rita to hold.

Almost instantly, he calms. How could he be upset when there’s an adorable baby to adore? The prickling panic fades from his chest as he focuses on her. At a couple months old, she still sleeps most of the day. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s no longer in her mother’s arms, and instead in a stranger’s. But Aaron isn’t a total stranger — he was there the day she was born, and held her just like he is now. He’s an established part in the Hamilton’s lives.

(He wouldn’t go as far to say _family,_ though.)

“Aaron,” Eliza says, and he turns to her. His given name sounds right when she says it — familiar, but not using it against him.

She gently sits next to him and has a small smile on her face. She knew what she was doing. But that’s okay. They have to look out for each other when there’s someone like Hamilton in the forefront of their lives. Aaron likes to think that she does it because she likes him for _him_ , and not because he’s something that’s in addition. Before the set of unfortunate circumstances that led them to now, he didn’t know her well; only second-hand information from what Hamilton had told him. But it’s been a privilege to get to know her himself. He provides what he deems appropriate for their kindred friendship. He watches over the younger children when she needs a moment for herself, he remembers things she says that are important to her and brings it up in later conversations, he buys her trinkets when he sees something that he thinks she’ll like. He likes doing nice things for her, he likes _her_ — apart from Hamilton, as a separate entity. Most days, he thinks that he likes her better. Eliza is beautiful, inside and out.

 _She’s pretty_ , Aaron thinks, even though he shouldn’t think that about another man’s wife, and he shouldn’t think it because that’s trivializing to Eliza. But she is beautiful, especially when she’s casual like this, with her hair hanging loose from its usual pinned-back style, and her neckline bare — she must’ve not replaced the lace fichu after nursing, she must be comfortable enough with his presence to be dressed as such, and he can’t help but notice how nice her breasts look, him seeing a slip of skin that’s lighter and he thinks of how it matches the color of her knees—

—which is all true but it would be another type of rudeness to not acknowledge her beauty.

He could never tell her this. Instead, he returns her smile and says, “Thank you. I know I’m a bother.”

“You aren’t a bother,” Eliza says, laying her hand on his, over where he’s holding Rita. He doesn’t know if she’s saying it to be nice, but it’s comforting all the same. To not feel like a burden to someone.

Eliza runs her hand through Rita’s dark mess of hair that’s becoming more like Hamilton’s every day.

“She likes you.”

“I like her,” Aaron says. “I like babies. I had only Theo…”

His words peter out; Eliza picks them up.

“Well, you can spend as much time with her as you’d like,” she says, and how is she okay with that?

He asks her that, and says, “I don’t want your children to be confused about who I am.” They must be confused — the man who almost killed their father now lives in their home and sits next to their father during meals. He thinks of Phil, clinging to him and asking _are you my uncle?_ and the sad noise he made when Aaron told him, _I’m not._

“I don’t want to place myself where I don’t belong,” Aaron says, quiet. Better to know now, before getting his hopes up.

“I — _we_ want you here, Aaron,” Eliza says. It sounds sincere, like everything she says. He almost believes her.

Except.

“Speaking of…,” Eliza says, but she doesn’t fill in the word, just continues, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to discuss.”

From his experience, that set up usually precedes a difficult conversation. So there’s a problem, with him, after all.

“It’s about Alexander,” she elaborates, and yes. He creates problems.

“Oh?” Aaron aims for nonchalance, but his voice cracks and he averts his eyes. Looks at Hamilton’s newborn. She has his nose. “Does he have a grievance with me?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Eliza says, and then lightly laughs to herself. “Unless you count his frustrations, but those are his fault.” She pauses. “Mostly. You’re both so stubborn.”

“Yes.” Aaron doesn’t disagree.

He feels Eliza lean in closer, and she touches his arm for him to look at her.

“Alexander likes you,” she says.

That makes Aaron’s heart beat faster for some reason. Guilt?

“I suppose that he must, at times,” Aaron says. “We are friends.”

“He likes you more than that. He likes you a _lot_ ,” Eliza counters, and that’s impossible, she can’t mean what Aaron thinks she’s implying — but then she says, “And I think you like him, too. Unconventionally.”

Eliza probably planned this. Ambushed him! Wait until he’s comfortable and holding a sleeping baby, and then spring this topic on him when he can’t escape. He’s trapped. Rita is cute and sleeping and kind of drooling on his coat, and he can’t very well _move_ and wake her up…

And it was always going to come to this, eventually.

“Alexander and I have a complicated relationship.” Aaron starts with the basis of the truth. The rest is — more. “However, it’s not what you think.”

“What do _you_ think I think is between you and my husband?”

That’s a good question.

“That Alexander and I…are…” Aaron falters. “That the nature of our relationship is carnal.”

He regrets it when he names it. Eliza blushes and he feels his own face warm, he can’t _look_ at her because he as much as admitted his desire for Hamilton. It isn’t as though infidelity has stopped him from giving way to his desires before — Theodosia had been a married woman when they began their courtship — but he can’t do that to Eliza. He won’t be a home wrecker, and he can’t be with Hamilton for another, more obvious reason…

“Last spring,” he begins, delicately. He isn’t sure how to phrase it; he knows that Eliza knows but talking about it together is another thing. “When Alexander and I…”

“You kissed him.” She seems much more comfortable than he feels. Hamilton called her — what was it? Progressive. But that doesn’t make this secret between the three of them any more acceptable.

“That was an emotionally charged result of our developing, uh, friendship.” Something new. Something else. “I’m sure Alexander has explained.”

“Oh, he’s explained. Many times.” Eliza narrows her eyes. “But explain something to me. Who kisses their friends? Who strips their friend down and lies with them in bed?”

“Alexander told you that?” Of course he did, he would want to brag — _all I have to do is lie down and Burr takes off my clothes._

“He tells me everything,” Eliza says. She hesitates, like she wants to say something more; _he tells me everything since he cheated_ , perhaps? It’s better if Hamilton does tell her — he’s just as complicit in this as he is.

And if that’s so, what else has Hamilton told her? Something that Aaron hasn’t even realized himself?

Rita lets out a fussy whine, as if she can sense his unease. He wraps her swaddle tighter, rocks her gently until she quiets.

“If this is true, hypothetically,” he says, “I assure that nothing will come of it. Alexander hasn’t made any advances, and I’ll temper myself. Distance myself, if necessary.”

At that, Eliza grasps Aaron’s arm, puts her other hand on her chest.

“Oh, no. You don’t understand,” she says. “I _encourage_ you to act on it.”

He couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“I can’t tolerate much more of Alexander’s pining for you,” Eliza says. “At first, it was cute, but now it’s gone beyond that.”

“Eliza—”

“Aaron, please let me finish. It’s fine, I promise you. I know you’re both honorable men and wouldn’t do anything to harm me. Or express something to the other that the other does not want.” Eliza lowers her voice. She asks, “Do you want Alexander?”

“I…”

“It’s okay. I am familiar with the proclivities that some men have for other men.” Eliza is flushed, all the way down to her chest, and Aaron wants her to tell him what she knows. He imagines Hamilton telling her filth, about how he feels about men, that he likes their muscular chests and what’s between their legs—

“I can’t stand to see him suffering like this,” she says.

Aaron highly doubts that Hamilton is _suffering_. He tells Eliza so, and she looks so _so_ sad.

“He cares for you more than you realize,” she says. “And I can tell you’re suffering too.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she says, “you’re hurting and Alexander is hurting you.”

“It’s not like that. He isn’t hurting me.”

“Aaron.”

“Yes?” and then Eliza gives him a sharp look, and he says, “Okay.”

“Good.” Eliza fixes his lapels. If she’s taking care of him or keeping herself busy, Aaron does not know.

She says, “You should do whatever makes this better between the two of you. Resolve this…tension.”

Aaron’s mouth goes dry. He licks his lips to wet his mouth.

“What are you saying?” he asks, and he’s still choking on his words. “Are you giving me permission to — what? Be with Alexander?”

“You have my permission.” She says it assured. Like it’s been something she’s planned. “Ongoing.”

Aaron had been incorrect — _both_ Hamiltons will be the end of him.

“How can you be okay with this?” he asks, because if he’s honest, he isn’t okay with any of it.

Eliza sighs. “I know that Alexander’s wants are abundant, they always have been. I know that he has an appetite for attention and an inclination for certain things. I know that he wants it from you. And I know that you’re a good person, despite what you believe.”

“But,” Aaron protests, and he isn’t even going to argue with her about him being a _good person_ because she isn’t to be argued with, “how are you okay with him being with another?” Already, his mind races — having Hamilton’s mouth on his, shoving his hand into Hamilton’s pants, being able to look at Hamilton for as long as he wants—

“I’m okay with it because, putting it lightly, Alexander likes me more,” Eliza says. “I know that what he feels for you doesn’t make him love me any less.”

Aaron doesn’t disagree. He’s always been an afterthought to Hamilton.

“Eliza, I don’t—”

“Oh, there you two are!”

The room feels much smaller when Hamilton enters it; it usually does. Aaron can’t look at him, or Eliza. He doubts that Hamilton knows of the conversation he walked in on — if he knew that his wife was all but telling Aaron to jump into bed with him, he would not be casual. He sits next to Aaron, says _something_ but Aaron doesn’t hear it because Eliza keeps looking between the two of them and Hamilton is leaning in, his leg pressing against his—

“Tend to your family,” Aaron says, and hands Rita to Hamilton, and gets up, leaving an open space between husband and wife.

“What was that about?” he hears Hamilton ask as he walks away. He waits in the hallway, listens.

“Oh, you know Burr,” Eliza replies, and that seems to be enough of an answer for Hamilton because he talks about something other than Aaron, and Aaron doesn’t want to hear that.

 

* * *

 

“Can we — can we just talk?” Aaron asks.

Cecilia gives him a glib smile, like, _oh you’re one of those guys now,_ but she says, “Sure,” and wraps her robe around herself, sits next to him. “Tell me a story.”

He needs to talk to someone that isn’t attached to everything else. Even if he has to pay for them to listen.

He lays his head on her shoulder, tells her a story. The amended story of his life currently. He’s poor, everyone hates him, he likes someone he can’t be with, et cetera.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She actually sounds concerned.

“I will be.”

Cecilia gets behind him, rubs his shoulders. “You’re so tense. Let me help you,” she says, and she gets him half undressed, massages the knots out of his shoulders. He relaxes, something else does not, and he lets her take off the rest of his clothes and she slips out of hers and a good fuck always takes his mind off of things.

 

* * *

 

Aaron loses the Representative spot. Horribly, in fact — the opponent wins with a seventy-two percent margin over him. Aaron is extremely unfavored, and now there’s data to support it. He isn’t surprised, and he has great satisfaction in telling Hamilton, “I told you so.”

“You don’t have to sound so damn smug about it,” Hamilton says, disgruntled. If he’s more upset about the results or the fact that he was wrong, Aaron does not know. He’s on edge, fidgety — which is never a good thing.

Hamilton sits on Aaron’s desk, hoisted himself up there, sitting on Aaron’s workspace, forcing them to talk about this. He’s on Aaron’s important papers, touches the violet that’s still alive somehow, and he puts his hand on a freshly written document and ink gets on his palm, but he shrugs and swings his leg, kicking Aaron’s chair and saying, “Burr,” every time his foot hits. _Burr. Burr. Burr._ Aaron gives in — he had planned to, he was just waiting the appropriate latency to not seem too cooperative — he leans back in his chair, looks at Hamilton in front of him. Hamilton stills, his legs hanging, and it’s obvious he’s quite pleased with himself. Dammit.

They’re at work — a sanctuary, of sorts. When it’s just the two of them, Aaron can get away with looking only at Hamilton, because there’s nobody else — nobody else to look at, and nobody else to see _how_ Aaron looks at Hamilton.

And then Hamilton looks at only Aaron, too.

“It’s okay,” Hamilton says, encouraging. “You’ll win next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Aaron replies. Hamilton is placating and that isn’t like him, which makes Aaron even madder. “I shouldn’t have even tried this time.” It was a terrible idea from the start — too much too fast, and of course he’d fail. It’s his fault; he knows he didn’t try hard enough, and when now that it’s over, he isn’t sure if he wanted the position at all. He thinks of telling Hamilton this, but he knows how that argument would end: badly. First, there’s silent accusation that one isn’t making a good enough attempt to maintain this relationship between them, then the other reacts and makes it worse, and then they remember how they ended up on opposite sides of a dueling ground. But Hamilton always inspires him to do insane things. “I’m sorry your investment in me didn’t work out.”

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Hamilton says, _yells_ , and he is angry. Interesting. They’re so sensitive to each other, a trigger set for the slightest perceived injustice when really, they meant no harm, but they’re so used to hurting each other…

“I don’t know what else I could do or say to convince you that I like you, Burr.” Hamilton’s hands clench, digs his nails into the varnished wood. “I want to make you feel better because you’re so goddamn miserable. I want to make you see that you’re alright. But I don’t think I ever could.”

Aaron’s caught between wanting to tell him _there’s nothing wrong with me_ and _you’re why I’m so miserable_ but he’s right, he could never make him _better,_ not entirely _. You haven’t done everything,_ he thinks but that isn’t the kind of _like_ that Hamilton means. No matter what Eliza had said, he doesn’t believe it. If Hamilton wanted something, he’d _take_ it.

But Hamilton keeps talking, softer now, “Sometimes, I think you are happier. Are you? Or are you pretending for my sake?”

Before Aaron can say, _yes, you make me happy except when you don’t but that happens when I’m not with you,_ Hamilton says—

“I want you to be happy, I want to be the one to make you happy. You drive me fucking crazy, Burr, and I swear you do it on purpose — do know what it does to me to see you get along so well with my family? And for you to stay out all night when I know where you’ve been? I want — I want you…”

Hamilton stops himself, looks away.

Aaron knows what he wants — and he has the blessing of Hamilton’s wife to seek it out — but he won’t, not when Hamilton is an uncertainty. Aaron would get on his hands and knees for Hamilton to give him a sign, and then he’d be willing to stay on his knees to show Hamilton how appreciative he is. Does Hamilton _want_ Aaron, full stop? Does he want him in the same way that Aaron does? But he resists because he thinks he’s the only one with these desires?

He lays his hand on Hamilton’s knee and _oh,_ he could run his hand up those shapely thighs and he expects Hamilton would let him.

“Alex,” Aaron says. “You’re not making this easy.”

“ _I’m_ not making it easy?” Hamilton shoves Aaron’s hand away from him as to prove a point. “You’re the one who’s insufferable and making this so fucking awkward. I should have given up but you’re too goddamn _good_ and I like you, you’re brilliant and handsome and why can’t we ever get it right? It’s always too late, for us.”

There — Hamilton has said it himself. If it’s too late, why try? There are so many _almosts_ with them, but never enough. Aaron stands and Hamilton is too close, he grabs Aaron’s hand, his grip almost hurts, and says, “You can’t leave, we’re going to talk about this.”

“Oh, _now_ you want to talk?” Aaron looks down where their hands are joined; his is smeared with ink, too, and that’s Hamilton, forever marking him. He goes to pull away, but Hamilton won’t let go, he’s liable to be dragged off the table first. “You aren’t going to, I don’t know, fake an illness to get out of it? You’ve been avoiding this conversation for a year, you selfish idiot, you _plonk_ — I can’t decide if you’re trying to talk me into it or out of it, but I know you’re doing it on purpose! I’ve heard you talk to Eliza about me while you’re with her, how _dare_ you use the both of us like this, you’re the most selfish person in the entire world, and how dare you criticize me for seeing prostitutes when that’s something honest, unlike your relationships. You’re trying to make me act out so you won’t have to feel guilty about what you want—”

Hamilton puts his mouth on his, grabbing his lapels to pull him closer until he’s slotted between his legs, greedy, and Aaron is greedy too because _finally_ is what he thinks when he’s pressed against him. Kissing Hamilton is as good as the first time, _better_ than the first time because Hamilton initiated, and Hamilton kisses like he’s starved, moaning against Aaron’s lips and going for more, kissing him deep and wet. It’s probably partly to shut him up, but Aaron doesn’t care. It’s as though he’s whet an insatiable appetite and he can’t have enough.

Hamilton pulls back, and Aaron is ashamed that he whines because _no don’t,_ but Hamilton kisses him again, a quick peck and asks, “This okay?” He’s breathing hard and his pupils are blown wide as he searches Aaron’s face, waiting — Aaron nods, returns the chaste kiss, and another because he can, and another and another as it gets more familiar, and Hamilton puts his hand to Aaron’s face (the cool of the wedding ring on his cheek not slowing them down) and brushes his thumb over Aaron’s lip that’s tingling from missing his mouth on his.

“Alexander,” Aaron gasps, and he feels his smile meet Hamilton’s. Neither denies what they _want_ so Aaron has the time to study it — how Hamilton’s goatee feels on him and how he tastes like what he thinks a sunset would personify and how he escalates it when he wants more, all mouth and teeth and tongue—

“You _are_ the most selfish person to have ever existed,” Aaron mumbles and Hamilton responds, “I know, I know,” and rests his hands on Aaron’s shoulder and just _looks_ at him.

“God, I’ve dreamed about doing this again,” Hamilton says, his voice a low rumble in Aaron’s ear as he kisses a trail down Aaron’s neck. “I bit your neck, like this—,” and he does, a nip along Aaron’s jawline that makes Aaron ache for him, “and you gripped me, like this—,” and he reaches down and touches himself, gasps and throws his head back before looking back to Aaron, “and I’ve thought about doing the same to you, I want to so badly—”

Of course Hamilton would have thought these things. If Aaron didn’t want to keep kissing him so much, he’d hate him. He kisses Hamilton — using Hamilton’s shutting-up technique against him — and Hamilton is okay with not talking. He wraps his legs around Aaron’s waist, grinding forward, and Aaron _feels_ his interest and he knows that he must feel his too, and _fuck,_ the sound Hamilton makes when their cocks rub against each other through their breeches, a growl almost, and he pushes back saying, “yes, Burr, yes _yes_ ,” and Aaron doesn’t intend to respond but he does, but then—

—he comes to his senses, pulls away.

Hamilton looks a little lost, sitting on top of the desk with kiss-bitten lips and his hard dick straining in his breeches.

“What was that about?” Hamilton demands. He hops off the desk, takes a step to close the distance between them again — winces, his limp pronounced without his cane, and that’s a mood killer. “I know you want me, you can deny it all you want but I _felt_ you wanting me, I know, we’ve been pretending it doesn’t matter for a year but look what’s happened, this was inevitable so we might as well accept it.”

Aaron wonders if it’s too late to go back to kissing. That was easier than _this_ — and Hamilton looks cute when he’s angry, fuck fuck _fuck._

He doesn’t confirm, he just says, “I know that Eliza gave us permission, but I don’t know if I’m comfortable with it, I don’t know how it’ll go and what if someone else discovers us—”

“Wait, you spoke with Eliza? About _us?_ ”

Hamilton has a kind of horrified look — like he got _found out_ — and things deescalate quickly. Aaron feels his situation flagging and he quickly goes over the conversation with Eliza; she never explicitly said that she had the same talk with Alexander, but he had _assumed_ — he had acted on the pretense that Alexander knew and that there was nothing preventing them, but it appears as though it was enough of an issue that he had discussed it with Alexander’s _wife_ and everything is out of balance again, what was he thinking—?

Hamilton is silent, waiting for an answer, blindsided confused — which is understandable. Aaron is too. A few moments ago everything had seemed perfect but it never ever will be, with them.

“I need a smoke,” Aaron says, and tears himself away from Hamilton and leaves him there. He needs to get away, but he hopes, wishes that Hamilton will stop him.

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes!**  
>  \- This chapter takes place from early February to May 1st, 1806.  
> \- Burr's birthday is February 6th, oh HEY that's tomorrow, that wasn't planned!  
> \- [Representative election in 1806.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_House_of_Representatives_elections_in_New_York,_1806) Burr did not run for this, in reality. It's unlikely that a Federalist would've won, even if it weren't Aaron Burr.  
> \- [About stockings!](http://www.marquise.de/en/1700/howto/struempfe.shtml) Let's all be thankful that when I told bluecarrot about the stockings part she was like "remember they wore _garters_!" Yes.  
>  \- The "better than a ballroom introduction" is bluecarrot's joke.  
> \- [Stuff about the Manhattan Water company](https://www.google.com/amp/s/blog.mcny.org/2013/07/16/the-contentious-history-of-supplying-water-to-manhattan/amp/?client=safari), which is fascinating, really. And he did lose part in the company, after it all went down.  
> \- [Burr and Bellamy.](https://aarronburrs.tumblr.com/post/142777692211/ok-but-exactly-w-h-o-was-jonathan-bellamy-w-h-a) Bellamy's letters to Burr are so good and I'm not going to say anything but...there was something there.
> 
> This is over 100k! I never thought it would even be this far. Thank you all for still being here, thank you for all the support! You are all the best.


	14. Alexander VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want me," Alexander says. "Admit it."

He’s kissing Aaron Burr.

Burr had been talking, wouldn’t stop talking — impassioned — and Alexander couldn’t resist him anymore, so he kissed him.

Again. Finally.

Burr kisses him back, and in between breaths he calls Alexander _selfish_ and that makes Alexander want to kiss him even more. Their first time had been rushed — the touch-memory of it fleeting as they unearthed something new between them and there was the miracle that it was happening at all — so he savors it. How Burr’s hand goes to the small of his back like it’s meant to be there. How Burr’s kisses grow more intense, deep and with tongue. How he calls him _Alex._

Alexander wonders if he’s the only man Burr has ever kissed. He’s kissed a few in his day — but those were boys, and he had been a boy, too. Shy kisses on his island home in his youth when he didn’t know what it meant to like them but he had enough sense to keep them hidden away, and not-so-shy ones in tents on the edge of a battlefield, still young even though he thought he was as old as he’d ever be.

However, Burr is a man. Strong, heavy scented, and he’s _hard_ — Alexander can feel his erection as he ruts against him. Instinctively, he wraps his legs around Burr’s waist, pulls Burr closer, and Burr moans in his ear when their cocks rub against each other and, _oh,_ it’s been a while since he’s felt that. Mmm, nice. He has a thought of Burr bending him over the desk and taking him right there, and with the way Burr is pressed up against him he thinks that he would be more than willing, but he doesn’t want to stop kissing — they have a lot of time to make up for.

“Yes, Burr, yes _yes,_ ” he gasps, and Burr breathes hot against his ear and grinds against him, and—

Burr pulls away. Alexander thinks it’s only a respite and goes in for another kiss but Burr steps back, leaving Alexander sitting on his desk with a boner and his lips tingling from missing his. Burr gives some bullshit excuse to delay, like they haven’t waited a year to pick up where they left off, and then he’s saying something about Eliza, that he talked to her about _them_ and—

—when, _when_ did it get to the point between them that Burr found it necessary to go to Eliza? He could talk to her, but not him?

Reality shifts back into focus. He’s angry, confused — did this between them not matter as much to Burr as he had thought? Did Burr confess to Eliza, thinking him an adulterer? Did he tell her so he’d have the first word — and the last, too?

Alexander asks for him to explain, but he goes outside for a break — a smoke — without another word.

For a moment, Alexander thinks to let him be but then realizes, _no,_ that’s the last thing they need. They need to argue and press their bodies against each other — not necessarily in that order — but when Alexander steps outside to start one or the other, he sees that Burr didn’t go out for a smoke. He’s gone.

Alexander curses. Goddamn Burr.

He curses again when he realizes that Burr took their carriage.

 

* * *

 

Alexander gets home, eventually, after paying a rented carriage extra to _hurry._ He’s sure to note the cost in his ledger so Burr can reimburse him, because Burr is a goddamn pain and this is all his fault. It’s his fault that they’re fighting again — he guesses that they’re fighting — and it’s his fault that he’s got blue balls from the brief excitement that ended too soon.

He isn’t surprised that Burr is nowhere to be seen. He always runs away from conflict.

But Alexander won’t let him.

He climbs the stairs — a feat much easier when he’s pissed off and focused on something other than the twinge of pain in his side — and as expected, Burr’s door is shut. He tries to open it. Locked.

“I know you’re in there, Burr.” Alexander jiggles the knob. “Let me in.”

No response.

“Burr, you can’t stay in there forever.” He puts his ear to the door to hear if Burr has at least _moved_ and isn’t in one his I’m-going-to-lie-prone-for-hours moods. “You can’t go out the window, it’s too far of a drop.”

Then, there’s a very clear, “Go away.”

“Oh! So I’m not talking to a door after all,” Alexander says. He takes a step back, considers the door as if it were Burr himself. “Although, I’m sure the door would be a better conversationalist. Your wood tells me a lot, though. There’s one morning not too long ago when we were sharing your bed — you were asleep but your dick was awake. I wonder what you were thinking about. Not your whores, I’m sure.”

Alexander flushes when he recalls that particular morning — morning wood is natural, but Burr’s woke him up because it pressed against Alexander’s ass and Burr had been so close so he stayed very _very_ still as he laid awake listening to Burr’s quiet sleep mutterings and _moans_ , waiting to see if a name slipped from him. Two minutes or so of that and Alexander had been too aroused, and he reached down and gripped himself and found his own release while Burr softly rutted against him in his sleep. He knew it was wrong — _so_ wrong — but at least he didn’t act on his first instinct and _touch_ Burr.

There’s no response from Burr. He thought that would have at least got a rise out of him.

“Burr.” Alexander knocks on the door. “You can’t ignore me. I’ll stand out here all night if I have to.”

Silence.

“You obstinate idiot, you’re just making this worse.”

Apparently Burr doesn’t care; he doesn’t speak.

Alexander sighs. He tries a different approach.

“I know you want me,” Alexander says, “or at least, I think you do. Please clarify.” He pounds his fist on the door. “Also, what did you discuss with my wife? What makes you think you could get in my business?”

Nothing.

“Please?”

Not even being _polite_ works.

“Fine!” Alexander shouts. “Lock yourself away. I don’t care if I ever see you again—”

A lie, lie, lie.

“You’re a fool, Aaron Burr, and I’ve spent too long trying to figure you out. You’re helpless. _Coward.”_

He would take anything, an apology or a punch in the face, but Burr remains unyielding. Alexander yells, bangs on the door, demands that Burr talk to him immediately. Not that it makes a difference. Burr won’t comply. Alexander hates Burr, hates him hates him hates him—

“Come out here and fucking kiss me, you coward—”

“Alexander, what are you doing?”

He turns, sees Eliza standing next to him, looking rather cross. He hadn’t heard her approach.

His hand falls from where it’s rapt on the door. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” Eliza says, almost amused. “I heard that last bit loud and clear.”

So, there’s no reason to feign innocence.

“Burr and I had a disagreement,” he explains, feebly.

“I’ve gathered that,” she replies in a tone that’s like, _again?_ “I could’ve figured that out without you pounding on the door, goading Burr into kissing you…” Quieter, she asks, “What happened?

“ _I_ kissed him. Back at the office,” says Alexander, and then there’s that familiar guilt he’s accustomed to, but that’s not the biggest issue. “But then he said that you gave him permission for us to do…that, but that must be an excuse to alleviate his massive guilt—” Yes, that’s good, put it back on Burr, “—and to get his hands on my massive—”

“I did give Aaron permission.”

Well. That changes things. Alexander would be angry with her too if he weren’t so grateful and _interested_. The possibilities — his wife, agreeable to the idea of him being with another, a man, and Burr acting on it…

“I don’t know whether to ask _what_ or _when_ or _why_ ,” Alexander says, “but you could have let me in on your devious plan.”

Eliza laughs and takes his hand, and places a kiss in his palm.

“My dear husband, would that have changed your mind?” Eliza asks. Alexander goes to speak because he has _lots_ to say about that, but Eliza continues before he has a chance. “I’ve been telling you for months that it’s okay to explore this… _thing_ you have brewing with Aaron. I had to intercede because I’m so tired of the two of you looking at each other like you’ve lost something you’ve never even had.”

“I’ve tried, Eliza—”

“Have you tried talking to him before right now?”

Alexander suddenly remembers that Burr is on the other side of the door, likely hearing their entire conversation.

“No,” Alexander slowly says, “but—”

“At least Burr listens.”

“He does _not._ ” Alexander gestures to the closed door. “He’s not listening to me now. How can I fix this if he won’t come out?”

Eliza sighs. “You’d realize that he does listen, if you’d only listen to him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eliza doesn’t answer — she just sighs again, and knocks softly on the door.

“Aaron?” she says. “It’s Eliza.”

Alexander frowns at how easily she uses Burr’s given name; _Aaron_ sticks in his mouth and it never sounds right. He expects Burr to ignore her too, and that will make him _really_ mad because nobody can ignore his wife and get away with it, but thankfully, there’s the sound of footfalls and Burr’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you join me and Alexander? Dinner is soon.” Eliza uses her kindest, most persuasive voice, the same one she uses to coax the children into doing things (whereas, Alexander just bribes them).

Alexander grumbles, “He won’t.” Eliza elbows him.

Sure enough, Burr is predictable as summer rain. Through the door, he says, “I think I’ll pass, thank you.”

Eliza and Alexander exchange a look before turning back to the closed door.

“Aaron Burr, if you don’t come out this _instant_ —”

Alexander smiles. As with the children, if coaxing doesn’t work, threats will.

Before Eliza can finish her threat, Burr cracks the door open, steps out. He blankly looks at the pair of them. “What is it?”

Eliza takes a menacing step forward, and Burr shrinks back — apparently not expecting it from her. Alexander grins.

“You’re going to join the family dinner,” Eliza begins, “and you will be pleasant company. After, you and Alexander will discuss your…friction.”

 _Lack of friction,_ Alexander thinks.

Eliza glances down at Burr’s appearance — neck cloth undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, breeches wrinkled — and raises her brow. “Also, freshen up. You look awful.”

“A hot mess,” Alexander chimes in, smugly. It’s vindicating to see the usually put-together Burr looking disheveled.

“Like you aren’t a disaster eight days out of the week,” Burr snaps.

“First of all, your use of hyperbole is stupid, and second of all, I—”

“ _Behave._ The both of you.” Eliza pats Alexander’s face, and then points at Burr. “I expect to see you soon,” she says, and she leaves muttering to herself about how perhaps she should let them deal with the matter as they’ve done before on a dueling ground.

“Well,” Burr says once she’s gone, “she sure told us.”

“Yes.” They aren’t talking about _them_ , not necessarily — so it’s easier.

“Do you always have her do your dirty work?” Burr asks.

Alexander watches him talk, watches him bite his lip, punctuating the quip. He wants to do that — he thinks of how nice his lip is caught between Burr’s teeth, and he wonders what it’d feel like for Burr to bite his thighs as he works his way up…

“Only when it’s needed.” Alexander touches Burr’s shoulder — a friendly gesture, something that would have been relatively no issue this morning, before — and Burr flinches.

And before Burr can try and say that he’s sorry, Alexander lets his hand fall.

“You better be there,” he says, and leaves it at that.

It’s Burr’s turn to disappoint.

 

* * *

 

Burr goes to dinner, impeccably dressed, changed into a suit of black velvet — just as Eliza had asked. But he might as well not be there because he doesn’t acknowledge Alexander at all. Wasn’t he supposed to be there to cooperate with him?

Burr is being petty, honestly. His presence is a demonstration of how much he _doesn’t_ want to talk to Alexander. He sits at his usual place across the table from him, but he only talks to Eliza and the children. Makes jokes. Laughs. Fills in the pauses in conversation so Alexander cannot interject.

It’s infuriating. How dare Burr come into his home and be friendly with his wife? How dare he act as though he belongs there? And how dare he lead him on? How dare Burr make this his pastime, seeing if he can make Alexander break first? How dare he pretend he has no commitment to this, when his actions say otherwise? He’s a reliability, a cool hand to his forehead when he’s sick, an intellectual equal—

—and how dare his kisses taste like forgiveness, when he’s hardly given anything to be sorry for?

Alexander seethes.

On the other side of the table, he notices that Theo also appears to be in a bad mood. Alexander guesses that she’s annoyed with Burr’s nonsense, too.

He thinks of something Burr has told him on more than one occasion: _I tell Theo everything._

Alternatively, he realizes that she’s probably angry with him. But he gets the feeling that she never has liked him much, anyway.

“You’re quiet, Alexander.”

He turns his attention to Eliza. He knows what she’s doing — giving him a chance. A chance to do the right thing. That’s all he can ask for, really, since apparently she’s had this all figured out without him.

He flits his eyes over to Burr. He’s looking at him, too, but in that goddamned superior way he does — like he thinks he’s better because he can be so emotionally detached to what’s happening.

Alexander puts on a smile. “I’m just trying to listen to Burr.”

“Just because you aren’t talking doesn’t mean you’re listening,” Burr says. It’s almost flirtatious, this taunting that he does. He’s clearly enjoying this. He probably gets off on this more than he does with physical contact.

By now, everyone is attentive to their conversation, holding on for his response with bated breath. The kids are staring, waiting for him to make it worse; Eliza is glaring, expecting him not to make it worse.

Is he _that_ predictable?

“Maybe,” Alexander begins, and he can sense the entire table brace themselves because they _know_ that he can never stand down from a fight. “I don’t listen because you don’t have anything interesting to say.” He stabs at his food, eats. “I’ve been around you all day, and god — _boring_. The most exciting thing was when you sneezed twice in a row.”

(Other than the kissing and grinding — that was quite exciting indeed.)

Burr is angry now, too — his jaw twitches, which is always the first sign of him losing his resolute composure — and he must know what Alexander intends between the lines. He fires back, saying, “You can’t listen because you’re too busy shoveling down a second helping of potatoes, and I saw you eyeing a third.”

“Is that supposed to mean something about my weight?” Alexander finds himself mildly offended — and sitting up straighter, sucking in his stomach. “Because I’d be able to run and be active if a certain _incident_ didn’t leave me unable, hindered from physicality.”

“Oh, please. You haven’t had an exercise regimen since the war.”

“Mom?” asks one of the children, quietly, as though they could sense the impending doom of their argument. Eliza tries to intervene, “Will you two please be mature?”

Her request goes unheard, however, Alexander continuing—

“I may be out of shape, but my knees are okay.” He smiles, licks his lips. “And so is my mouth.”

There’s a tint of red pigmentation showing through Burr’s complexion, and isn’t that the prettiest thing in the world? He’s embarrassed or angry — either is good. _Good,_ Alexander thinks. Burr is thinking of him on his knees for him, with his mouth open and ready—

“You’re changing the topic,” Burr says, and why is he talking? But he keeps on, telling Alexander, “See, you don’t listen, you always make things _my_ fault—”

“It’s not _not_ your fault,” Alexander says. It _is_ his fault that he shot him, and it’s his fault that he kissed him to begin with — both of which that started this whole thing. “And why should I listen to you when you don’t listen to me when I have something to say?”

“Oh my god, we’ve been through this already. If you weren’t so insufferable—”

“Me? You’re the one who’s always cranky. You just want me to say what you want to hear, and be quiet all other times. If you don’t like what I say, perhaps you could occupy my mouth in some other way—”

“Alexander!” Eliza touches his arm, scolding, “That’s quite enough—”

“—and then I’ll take your point in hand.”

“Why ask when you’re begging to do it?” Burr asks. “As usual, you can’t wait to show off—”

“I’m very talented. You’ve only sampled the beginnings of what I have to offer. And I know it’ll make you want more.”

“You _make_ me crazy.”

“I must be an exciting guy.” Alexander leans in, elbows on the table. “Do I excite you, Aaron Burr? Do I get you going?”

“Stop!”

They both turn to Eliza, mutter an apology, having been properly admonished by her. She’s frowning, and Alexander feels bad but not bad enough because it’s _Burr_ and he’s being an idiot. _They_ are being idiots. Both of them. Burr for being so contrary, and Alexander for even wasting his time with him.

And yet.

The conversation slips away from them, Eliza trying to salvage the evening. Burr is sullen, but then his gaze meets Alexander’s and there’s still some fight there and—

“I notice you aren’t eating,” Alexander says, nodding to Burr, who’s picking at his plate. “I know something that might be more to your taste.”

“Hmm?” Burr’s expression only changes mildly — as though he cannot be surprised by anything that Alexander does.

Alexander slips off his shoe, extends his leg under the table in Burr’s direction.

“It’s a type of sausage—”

“ _Alexander._ ”

“…sorry, Eliza.”

He isn’t sorry at all. He isn’t sorry he said it, and he isn’t sorry when he rubs his stockinged foot on Burr’s leg. Softly trailing up Burr’s shin and back down again.

Burr tilts his head — he’s curious — and he uncrosses his legs, setting them flat on the floor. Allowing passage?

Alexander grins.

Burr sets his jaw. His nostrils flare as he exhales. He doesn’t say _stop._

Alexander inches his foot a little higher on the next stroke, trailing up his knee. Wiggles his toes. “Would you like some sausage? I could give you some to try.”

Burr remains stoic as he says, “I would rather have some that’s fresh, and hasn’t been sampled by many people.”

He’s getting to him, Alexander knows. Burr is breathing harder, either with anger or lust — or mostly likely, a mixture of both — and really, that makes it better. He scoots forward in his chair so he can rest his foot against Burr’s thigh. Kneads circles into it, and Burr gasps, ever so softly.

“Mine comes with island spices,” Alexander says, wickedly. “I’ve been told it’s rather good. Ask Eliza.”

“Boasting about the quality usually means it’s compensating for something. Perhaps yours isn’t as filling as you’d wish it to be?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Eliza says, cutting in. “Stop this, now—”

She’s angry — which he doesn’t know why, she’s the one who encouraged this — and the kids are mostly confused — bless their naiveté — save for the older ones. Al is sinking down into his seat, mortified; Theo appears to be entertained with the scene; Angie is zoning out; and John has a dawning look of horror as he figures out that they’re speaking in metaphor.

He knows they should stop, but in regards to Burr, he doesn’t often do as he _should._ It’s gone on for too long to stop.

“It’s good,” Alexander says as he curls his foot against Burr’s inner thigh, inching closer to where he’s most sensitive. Burr captures Alexander’s ankle, runs his hand down, squeezes the arch of his foot and _oh_ that feels good, it sends a shiver up his spine and heat to his groin.

Burr doesn’t look away from him.

“It’s good,” Alexander repeats. “ _Delicious._ Thick and warm. When you’re presented with it, you’ll want it in your mouth.” He squirms forward, to reach— “But be careful, you might choke the first time you have it—”

Abruptly, Burr shoves Alexander’s foot out of his lap to the floor, and keeps a brutal eye contact as he _stomps_ on Alexander’s foot.

Alexander curses, yelps, jerking his leg up and knocking the table, making the dishes clatter and everyone stare at him. It fucking hurts, Burr did that on _purpose—_

“If I may be excused,” Burr says, directly to Eliza. He doesn’t wait for anyone to say anything — nobody is going to say anything to him — and he calmly stands and pushes in his chair like nothing’s wrong at all.

His foot still throbs slightly but he jams it into his shoe and he stands, throws his napkin on the table with the intent to follow Burr and settle this, once and for all.

However, he catches Eliza’s withering glare, and he _knows_ what that means.

“But, Burr…he…”

 _We’ll talk about his later,_ is unsaid, but for now—

“I am not married to Aaron Burr,” Eliza says, firmly, then adds, “And neither are you.”

There’s a tittering of laughter surrounding him — the children are amused that their father got scolded, and at the ridiculousness of the idea of him being married to Burr. The suggestion is absurd — a _man_ — and Eliza is correct, he’s not married to Burr and he never will be.

He doesn’t know why that is more disappointing than it should be.

“Right.” He clears his throat, sits. His face flames with embarrassment, and then shame.

He eats Burr’s unfinished serving of potatoes.

 

* * *

 

Alexander isn’t having a good day. He’s been cockblocked twice _and_ it’s Burr’s fault that Eliza is angry with him.

He climbs the stairs after dinner — he’s going to have this conversation with Burr, or else. What the _or else_ entails, he doesn’t know, but Burr is going to open the door or he’ll make him, and then they’re going to talk, goddamn it, and then…and then…

Burr opens his bedroom door before Alexander can knock on it.

“Oh,” Alexander says, taken aback. “I didn’t think it would be that easy. I thought you’d stay shut in all night and I’d have to convince you.”

Burr sighs. “What do you want?” he asks, as if he doesn’t _know_ that Alexander was going to follow him when he walked out.

There’s no amity with it, so Alexander doesn’t offer any, either — he pushes the door open wider and shoves his way in past Burr. Forces himself, because apparently that’s the only thing Burr understands. Create a situation where he _has_ to respond.

He stands in front of the closed door so Burr can’t escape.

“You said I didn’t listen.” Alexander holds out his arms, open. “Well, here I am. Ready to listen.”

For a moment, it seems as though Burr is going to ignore him — he paces, rubbing his face and cursing under his breath — and Alexander is ready to say _I was right,_ but then Burr rounds on him and _now_ he’s talking.

“What was that at supper?” Burr asks, _demands._ He takes a step forward and Alexander takes a step back — it’s an odd dance.

“You know exactly what it was.” Alexander doesn’t have a response other than that — they both know what they’re playing at. “And I know you wanted it.”

“I do not.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, Burr.”

“Was stomping on your foot not a clear enough indication that I don’t?”

“Oh, the only thing clear to me was your cock outlined in your breeches as you stomped out of the room—”

“Hamilton—”

“You can’t expect me not to notice you,” Alexander says, and it’s his turn to take a step forward, closing the distance; Burr balks, doesn’t budge — he’s just as stubborn as Alexander, or worse. “You can’t expect me not to want you now that I know what it feels like to have your cock against mine and you moaning for more.”

Burr bites his lip. He must be thinking of it, too — was it only this afternoon when that blessed moment occurred? When the thirst for each other was finally appeased, only to bring a new drought?

“I looked at you, once,” Alexander says. “That morning when you were rubbing against my backside, curiosity got the best of me and I peeked under the blanket and _oh._ ” He closes his eyes and swallows, his mouth gone dry at the memory — his ass covered in Burr’s sticky release and Burr’s cock resting against his leg, his glorious, perfect cock. He focuses back on Burr. “Ever since then, I’ve wanted my hands and mouth on your cock. I want to, and I know you want it too—”

“The only thing I want is for you to _stop_ ,” Burr says, strained, somewhere halfway between a plea and a curse. He looks at Alexander like he hates him for existing — hates him because he’s there and cannot deny him, that Alexander is an insurmountable desire for him.

But Alexander won’t let him. He tells Burr, “I know you want me. You like kissing me — and who kisses someone they don’t like?”

“It happens all the time,” Burr says. “And I don’t _like_ you.”

“Of course.” Alexander smiles. “And I don’t like you, either.”

Burr frowns.

“However,” Alexander says, “I think you like me sometimes, and I like you sometimes. We can work with that.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t lie to me, I know you want me, I _felt_ you wanting me—”

And Burr opens his mouth to speak, says, “It’s noth—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s _nothing_ , Aaron Burr.” Alexander touches Burr with a brazen assurance, running his hand up Burr’s arm to rest against his neck, fingers curling around and he swears he feels the _thud_ of Burr’s pulse. “You’re interested. You’ve said as much to Eliza. I could make you feel good. If you think my kisses are good, wait and see — you’ll like my mouth better somewhere else. I’ve been told I’m quite good at it.” He licks his lips, watches Burr follow the trail of his tongue. “I’ve been thinking about your cock, Burr. I bet it’ll fit nicely in my mouth, and leave an ache in my jaw—”

“Alexander,” Burr says, “please—”

“Yes, I could make you beg. I’ll be so good, you’ll never want for another.” He kisses Burr’s jawline, nips with his teeth. Burr gasps in his ear. He laughs. “I’d let you take me — you know _how_ I mean. I’ve thought about you in me. I’m sure you’re much better than my fingers.”

Burr stares at Alexander open mouthed, his eyes hungry — Alexander hopes that his brilliant mind is conjuring up an image: Alexander with a moment of privacy, naked in his bed with two fingers pressing inside him and his other hand stroking his dick, choking on moans because it feels so _good_.

“Have you thought of it? How a man fucks a man?” Alexander asks, and Burr doesn’t give anything away. Alexander thinks him ignorant of it. “It’s fantastic — entirely different than it is with a woman. Wonderful. Just thinking about it makes me…” He grips himself through his breeches; he’s half-hard, and with the way Burr is hot against him will make him fully there soon. “You’ll like it — you’re virile. Amorous. You drive me fucking crazy — I want you and I’ll do anything to touch you and have you—”

Burr kisses Alexander hard, putting his hands at the back of Alexander’s neck to draw him in. The pair of them stumble back until Alexander is pressed against the door — slammed against the door, really. It knocks the breath out of Alexander, and Burr drinks it up, taking the opportunity of his open mouth to slide his tongue inside. Alexander returns it, kissing wet and desperate — the kind of kiss that leads to something else — and runs his hands down Burr’s back and down his ass, squeezes. Burr grunts, rolls his hips forward and Alexander feels his hardness at his hip and, oh, he’d love to drop to his knees and suck his cock and prove how good he is — it’s been a while but he knows he can do it — but he doesn’t want to stop kissing him either, maybe…maybe….

He pulls away, and Burr chases him, kisses him again.

“Please,” Alexander whispers, his hand going between them. He nibbles Burr’s bottom lip, kisses. “Touch me? Just try it — just for a bit,” he asks, and Burr puts his hand on him and it’s better than he thought it’d be, “Yes! Touch me, just like that—”

“Why do you want me?”

“What?” Alexander is having a — hard — time figuring out words. Burr has his hand on his cock, rubbing him tortuously slow through his breeches and he’s asking _questions_.

“You want me,” Burr says. A statement, not a question.

“ _Burr._ ”

“Is this what you were going for at supper?”

He’s stroking the length of Alexander’s erection, base to tip, and _yes_ this is exactly what Alexander wanted. But of course Burr is a goddamn tease about it. Alexander shifts, moans. “I had to get your attention.”

He tries to kiss Burr, but Burr turns his head so his mouth lands on the side of his face instead. Alexander huffs, but Burr keeps working him, so he doesn’t complain.

“It’s all about what you want, isn’t it?” Burr asks, leaning in as he rubs his thumb against the head of Alexander’s cock. Alexander shivers, feeling sticky excitement leak out and wet his breeches as Burr continues, “You parade around, rubbing off and begging for it.”

“At least I’m not a coward,” Alexander says. “Unlike you, hiding your want with your whores.”

“Whoring is honest. There’s no hiding my intention for sex, and nobody gets hurt.” Burr speaks low and even, and Alexander has to concentrate to hear — and the fact Aaron Burr is touching his dick through his pants is quite distracting, too.

Burr asks, “But do you tell Eliza that you think of me when you pound her?”

“I _never_ do that,” Alexander says, contemptible — he’s never thought of Burr when he’s with Eliza — how dare he even suggest that his mind could wander when Eliza’s got her mouth on him and that he imagines how Burr’s mouth would feel…

“You can’t have both, not when Eliza and your children are involved,” Burr says — and he’s saying these things but he’s still got his hand on him — and he keeps talking. “You’re doing what you want without thinking of the consequences, and when they happen you refuse to deal with them. It’s _always_ about what you want, Alexander. You never have the courage of your convictions and that’s why I shot you the first time, and I swear I’d do it again.”

“You wouldn’t,” Alexander says, his breath short as Burr grips him tightly. “You didn’t want to the first time.”

“I did. And so did you,” Burr replies. He looks down at where he’s touching Alexander, his hand cupping perfectly over his bulge. “You never apologized for those awful things you’ve said about me—”

“I was drunk when I said those things! And you’ve talked shit about me too, so—”

“—and you didn’t even read my last letter leading up to our duel. You sent it back unopened — you didn’t want to compromise. You wanted to humiliate me in a spectacle—”

“All that doesn’t matter,” Alexander says, and he kisses Burr, rough and biting, and Burr’s hand tightens on his cock and Alexander tries to touch his in return but Burr pins his hand against the wall. Alexander tugs at Burr’s lip with his teeth when he pulls away, and Burr swears. They glare at each other, panting open-mouthed.

“You want me,” Alexander says. “Admit it.”

Burr drops Alexander’s hand, and holds his face instead. Alexander keens and presses against it, says, “Please.”

“I want you,” Burr says — growls. “I think about you constantly. It’s ruined my sleep because I dream about you, and then when I wake you’re there too — I’m always wanting you. I want you so terribly, and I hate that I do because I shouldn’t. Wanting you is a burden. I dream about shooting you and I wake up in a cold sweat thinking you’re dead and I swear my heart stops because I care too much and—” He chokes. “But you don’t care. I’m a pastime for you. Anyone could be touching you and you’d still respond this way.”

“Burr, you’ve got your hand on my dick, of course I’m going to be…ah.” Alexander thunks his head back as Burr starts stroking him harder. He’ll definitely come in his breeches if he keeps on.

“It has nothing to do with me?” Burr asks. “It doesn’t matter than we’ve known each other for decades? Was there ever a time when you genuinely cared for me without — without some other intent?”

“I, mmm… That’s…” Alexander groans, leans against Burr as Burr focuses his touch near the tip, rubbing damp material against him which feels fucking amazing. Sure — it feels good, but it’s Burr doing it and that’s a turn-on, too.

“And when you accepted my challenge, that didn’t have anything to do with me? You’d refuse to apologize and go to Weehawken over anyone?” Burr kisses him. “Is this still a challenge to you?”

“Stop being a fucking idiot,” Alexander says — and thrusts into Burr’s hand, he can’t stop himself. “I care that it’s you—”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Burr pushes him away, staggers back. Alexander sees he’s hard and his pupils are wide — wanting.

“Why do you want me?” Burr asks, again.

Alexander opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“You’ve waited too long to answer,” Burr says. “There’s nothing here between us.”

“But you want me,” Alexander says, and he wants Burr too — so much. He takes Burr’s hand, kisses his palm. It hurts when Burr jerks away.

“I’ve _always_ wanted you,” Burr says. “But the problem is I can’t stand to be in your company long enough to do anything about it.”

Something pangs deep — not heartbreak, but something similar.

Burr waves his hand at Alexander dismissively, and turns away. “Leave me alone.”

Then, Alexander realizes that with all the blood lost from his brain and gone elsewhere, he had forgotten that Burr is more stubborn than him.

“If that’s what you want, sure,” Alexander says. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He opens the door, adjusts his breeches — winces when fabric rubs against his crotch — and looks back to where Burr broods in the middle of the room. When Burr notices Alexander is looking, his expression becomes cruel.

“Good,” Burr says. “Go fuck your wife.”

“Go fuck your whore.”

“They’re better than you.”

“And now you’ll never know for sure,” Alexander says. “You aren’t worth my effort. You’re just a warm body. I don’t need you.”

Burr visibly recoils, like he’s been shot.

So that’s how it feels. Huh.

Alexander goes to his office and bolts the door.

 

* * *

 

“Burr is the most awful man I have ever known,” Alexander says, concluding the synopsis of his and Burr’s most recent disagreement.

“Is that why you came to bed smelling of your own come?” Eliza asks, accusingly.

Alexander blushes, and turns his face into the pillow. After he left Burr and locked himself in his office, he had fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches, and he couldn’t get his hands on his dick fast enough. It took only a few quick strokes to find his release — the argument with Burr had him nearly there.

Mildly embarrassing.

He peeks at Eliza, who’s still there next to him in bed. The candlelight casts a soft orange glow to the room, but doesn’t hide the severity of her expression. She expects an answer — she won’t let him get out of it that easily.

“You don’t understand, Betsey,” Alexander whines, flopping onto his back. He folds his arms across his chest. “Burr is arrogant, conceited—”

“That sounds like someone else I know.”

He frowns. “He’s _mean._ I was wrong to think anything different.”

“I’ve never heard you call him _kind._ ”

He hasn’t? He was certain that he has. Burr could be kind, but to everyone _but_ him. He’s even nicer to his cat than he is to him.

“Well, I won’t ever call him as such.” He pauses, and then adds, “And he called me fat.” Burr was correct, Alexander has gained a little bit of weight in his recent years — he’s softer around the middle — but that happens when you’re older and are physically limited, and everyone can’t be fit like Aaron-fucking-Burr. He knows he’s still attractive; Eliza has always shown appreciation for his curves, and his other features remain stunning. Burr is just being a petty asshole.

Eliza sighs, sliding her hand under the cover and pats Alexander’s stomach at the softest part. He glares at her because it would be cute any other time, but he’s annoyed and she isn’t helping and—

Eliza breaks into laughter — the kind that sneaks up on her and isn’t a dignified lady’s giggle. A loud, chest-heaving laugh that she quickly stifles in Alexander’s shoulder so she doesn’t wake the rest of the house. Alexander rolls his eyes, sighing. He’d be more upset with her if she weren’t so patient as she listened to his problem.

“My poor Hamilton,” she says once she’s able — there’s still a hint of laughter there. She kisses him on his cheek, as though that can make up for it. “You don’t like being rejected, do you?”

Rejected. He hadn’t even thought of it that way. Now he’s even _more_ angry with Burr. He’s never been rejected by a prospective lover.

“This is your fault, you know,” Alexander grumbles.

Eliza raises her brow. “And just _how_ is this my fault?”

Too much. He backtracks before he gets into two arguments in the same evening. “If you had told me to stop this thing with Burr I would’ve, and I wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

“You needed to be told not to seek pleasure with another? I thought our marriage vows would be enough of a reminder.”

He’s getting mixed signals.

“But you encouraged it! I was going to end it but when I confessed — but you said it was okay, you said I could—”

Eliza shushes him by kissing him.

“I know. But even if I had told you to stop, would you?” she questions. “You’ve done it before, when you knew you shouldn’t have.”

Alexander is sick to his stomach with overwhelming guilt — that never really goes away — and he scoots away from Eliza, distancing himself, concentrates on breathing, his exhale smothered against the sheets, and he thinks about how he bought them a new bed after his affair because he couldn’t stop thinking about what he did, but that didn’t work so he had the room rearranged. “I wouldn’t, not again,” he says, voice wavering, and even though Eliza has said she forgives him she hasn’t forgot, and sometimes he thinks that she really hasn’t forgiven him either…

“Look at me, Alexander,” Eliza whispers, touching his shoulder. She doesn’t listen to his explanation (excuses). “Look at me.”

He opens his eyes — when did he squeeze them shut? — and focuses on Eliza.

She isn’t angry.

“I am tired, Alexander,” she says. “It’s taken an entire year for you to make up your mind about what you want, and you’ve been jerking Aaron around for your amusement. And then you complain to me for help to seduce him, but when I do help, you get mad at me when you mess it up with your stellar people skills. I’m frustrated, and I’m done.”

“But Burr won’t speak to me now,” Alexander says. “He wants to talk to me about my _feelings._ I don’t know how I feel — I don’t care about his feelings…” His voice trails off. “Why does Burr make everything so hard?”

“I thought you wanted some things to be _hard_ with him?”

“Eliza!”

“But don’t you?” she asks. “Don’t you want to do nasty boy things with him?” She’s teasing, slipping her hand under his shirt and trailing her fingers over his soft cock. He squirms away — he doesn’t want _that_ now when they’re talking about this. Mood killer.

“Yes, I want _that_ ,” Alexander admits, tactful, because saying _I want Burr to come in my mouth_ is a bit obscene. “But I pressured him to admit his…attraction to me, but then he expects me to, like, bare my heart in return.”

“I don’t think it’s a lot of him to ask if you legitimately like him.”

“It’s not like we’re courting. I just know that he makes me…”

“Horny?”

Alexander blushes.

Burr makes him feel all sorts of ways. Aroused, yes. Heat curls in his stomach when Burr’s body is next to his, and his impulse is to reach out and _touch._ That’s simple. Hedonistic, pleasure-driven. It could be with anybody.

But sensibilities — like how his chest feels light and airy when Burr smiles at him, or how he finds Burr’s occasional clumsiness charming, or how some of the times he enjoys the most is when they quietly work side by side because their company is enough and they don’t need to speak. Anything other than lust is an attachment, something to further tie him to Burr — and he doesn’t think he can cope with that.

“You’ve been pining over Aaron for a year,” Eliza says, “and you say it’s only about sex?”

Alexander coughs. “That’s all I want from him.”

“If that’s how you truly feel, go tell him.”

“He’ll be upset and pout.”

“He might.”

“I don’t want him to be upset.”

“So you _do_ have feelings?”

“I can’t tell him that either,” Alexander says. “He’d be unbearable. And then he’d probably turn me down because — what was it that he said? _He can’t stand to be in my company long enough to do anything about it._ ”

“Oh, so that’s what it is?” Eliza asks, “You don’t want to be the only one with these icky _feelings._ ”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hmm.” Eliza curls around Alexander, resting her head on his chest. “I remember a certain young fellow writing me multiple letters a week, complaining because my letters didn’t elaborate enough to his liking on the topic of how much I fancied him.”

“He sounds like an egotistical idiot,” Alexander mumbles. What’s wrong with wanting reassurance that your feelings are reciprocated? Spending all his free time in the war obsessing over Eliza’s letters and writing and asking for more — there were never enough, no matter how many she wrote him — probably wasn’t the best use of his time. However, he was young and stupid and in love.

He supposes now he’s old and stupid and…in lust.

He’s screwed. But not in the way he’d like—

“Look,” Eliza says, short. “Go and talk to Aaron and don’t come back to bed until you’re settled it. Tell him you like him, tell him you hate him, lay with him, shoot him. I don’t care anymore. Just be quiet about it and don’t wake me or the children because it’s past one in the morning and I am exhausted.”

That would be the sensible thing to do. It’s probably what Burr expects him to do — come begging at his door.

“…I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“ _Alexander.”_

“It’s fine. You’re right,” Alexander says. “We should sleep. Didn’t you just say we should sleep? Sleep is good. A fresh start is a set up for success. Cooler heads will prevail in the morning. It’s fine. Burr and I always fight and make up. It’s our thing. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“It’s your choice.”

“Yes. I love you.” Alexander kisses her, ending the conversation.

“You’re an idiot,” Eliza says, and she rolls away from him, snuffs out the candle. She falls asleep quickly, and unburdened.

Alexander lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

The morning does seem brighter. He wakes naturally to the sunrise filtering through the curtain. He shuts his eyes again to float in the memory of sleep.

The space next to him is empty. That isn’t a surprise — Eliza often wakes before him. He takes advantage and stretches out, lulled into snoozing by the scent of Eliza lingering on the sheets and the warmth of a sunbeam.

His rest is short, however, when it’s interrupted by a persistent _meow_.

He sighs as he swings his legs to the side of the bed, sets both feet on the floor. He dresses for the day, grumbling to himself about Burr’s goddamn cat and goddamn Burr and Burr’s goddamn feelings and—

—he remembers that he’s supposed to be making up with Burr. So. He’ll figure out the conversation as it goes.

He finds Cleo at Burr’s closed bedroom door, crying, and pawing at the small crack underneath. She looks up at Alexander, and meows.

Alexander chuckles. Typical for Burr to be still sulking in bed.

 _Meow_. She rubs her face against Alexander’s foot, purrs. He thinks she’s saying, _let me in._

_Meow._

He opens the door for her because he can’t say _no._ He admits she’s cute — cute fluffy tail and cute white paws and cute whiskers. And Burr needs to get his lazy ass out of bed, anyway.

Cleo trots into the room, jumps gracefully onto the bed, which…is empty.

Huh. Burr must’ve gone downstairs already.

But Burr isn’t at the breakfast table, either. He tries to not think much of it — Burr sometimes doesn’t show up when he’s in one of his _moods._ It could be any other morning. Eliza is busy fussing with the children to eat. He hears Theo and Angie on the porch outside, coming in from their routine morning walk.

However.

When Alexander inquires after Burr, Eliza points to a note on the table addressed _Theo._

“That was there when I came downstairs. He must’ve had a rough night,” Eliza says, implying _because of you_ without saying so. “He probably left for work early.”

_To get away from you._

Theo and Angie come in, faces pink-tinged from the wind? Laughter? It’s a nice look on his daughter, and he smiles when she comes over and kisses his cheek and takes the seat next to him.

“Your father left you a note, Theo,” Al says, gesturing to the folded paper with his spoon.

Theo takes the paper, sits down and reads it silently. Alexander watches her read it. Her eyes scan it fast and it must say something horrible about him because her expression turns sour, glances up to him, and then back down to read it again.

“Is something wrong?” Eliza asks when Theo’s distress becomes more apparent — her eyes watering and hands clutching the paper.

“He’s gone,” Theo whispers.

“Yes, he left early this morning.”

“No.” Theo shakes her head. “My father has left home — he went to take passage on a ship.”

Alexander exchanges a glance with Eliza.

“He can’t just _leave_ ,” Alexander says.

“Well, he has.” Theo’s voice trembles. Angie takes the letter from her, reads it as Theo continues, “He didn’t even say goodbye to me.”

“Where did he go?” Al asks.

“He wasn’t very clear in his letter but—”

Alexander doesn’t hear the rest of what she says — he doesn’t hear her read _tell H he won_ — because he’s already up and walking out of the house.

Burr can’t get out of this that easy.

Everyone follows him out — Eliza tells John to look after the younger ones and hands Rita to James. She catches up to him, walks in pace with him, saying, “Maybe he’ll come back. He probably got to the port and wasn’t mad anymore.”

“Mad about _me_?”

“Well,” Eliza says. He knows what he’s thinking — _if you only talked to him last night, like I told you._

Theo scoffs.

Of course this is about him. Burr is throwing a fit and running away from his problems like he always does. Coward. Alexander can’t wait to call him that to his face, _fuck_ settling their argument and being nice.

They follow him round back, and to the stable. By this time, they must gather that he’s about to do something drastic — Al keeps saying, “ _Pop_ ,” in that strained, anxious voice he gets, Eliza harshly tugs on his coat, and Theo and Angie stand a few feet away whispering together as they observe.

Thankfully, his horse is already bridled. He gives her a pat and throws the saddle on — and that’s when everyone’s excitement amps up a few notches.

“You’re going to ride?” Eliza asks.

“Yep.” Alexander buckles the harnesses, tightens the straps.

“Why don’t you take the carriage?”

“Not enough time.”

“But you haven’t rode since…,” Al clears his throat. “It’s been a while.”

Ah, yes. Since Burr wrecked his life with a bullet. Even more reason to go after him.

Alexander holds onto the saddle, puts his foot into the stirrup. He holds his other hand out to Al. “I’m going to get on this horse if you help me, or not.”

Al groans, but he offers his hand for him to brace himself on and — he pushes and swings his leg over — Eliza gasps and Al has to shove him a bit — but he makes it, sitting in the saddle high above them, looking down.

He’s vaguely aware of Theo muttering, “Who would’ve thought the old man had so much blood in him?” but Al shushes her. Alexander laughs — it feels good to shock and awe.

Eliza comes up next to him, touches his leg.

“Alexander, what are you planning to do?”

He pulls on the reins — they step back, out of the way — and he directs his horse to step forward.

“I’m going to bring Burr back before he makes another mistake,” he says, and then nudges the horse with his heel and then he’s off — quickly picking up speed as he goes off his property, and down the road to take him through town to the port.

Al had been correct — it’s been a while since he’s rode horseback, but it’s something he couldn’t forget how to do. Like writing, arguing, or lovemaking. The reins chafing in his ungloved hands, wind in his face, the burn in his thighs, the feeling of urgency to get somewhere quick — it’s freeing.

He arrives at the port out of breath and sweating, and after the rush of the ride, he remembers what he came for. _Burr._

Slowing down, he sees several passenger ships at dock. He guides his horse to trot forward, and then dismounts — stumbles, his leg going out under him — but he catches himself and walks through the pain. He steps onto the dock, scanning the busy crowd for Burr — he can’t find him. This is mean — he wants Burr to come back, he’s _sorry_ — he doesn’t know what for exactly but he feels like he should say it, and he’d tell Burr this if he would only let himself be found…

He can’t find Burr.

“Burr!” Alexander shouts. People turn around, but none are who he wants, and his heart beats even faster than it did while he was riding — panicked. “Burr! Where the _hell_ are you?”

“Can I help you?”

Alexander whips around. Not Burr. A weathered dockworker stares him down critically. Alexander realizes how he must appear: a deranged man riding up on a horse — which he left to eat leaves from a nearby tree — with wind-tangled hair and fine clothes flecked with mud, and is causing a disturbance.

“Yes. I’m looking for someone,” Alexander says, frantic. “Aaron Burr? He was supposed to board a ship this morning but I don’t know which. I need him — I need to talk to him.”

The dockworker blinks at him.

“Could you possibly check which boat he’s on?” Alexander asks, quickly — time is of the essence. “Burr. Aaron.”

The man sighs and flips through his roster. Alexander tries to look, craning his head, but he moves the board away. He trails his finger down the page, muttering to himself. Alexander swears, and taps his foot.

“Ah,” the dockworker finally says. “Here’s your guy. The ship he boarded left a few hours ago. Just before daybreak.” He shows Alexander the paper, and there’s Burr’s neat signature, and and…

Alexander’s mouth goes dry. “Where’s the ship headed?” Virginia, most likely, or maybe South Carolina…

The dockworker glances down at the roster again. “England.”

And it’s like a canon has gone off next to him — his bones shaken and he’s weak-legged and his ears ring violently — something catches inside and he wheezes but it’s deep, a rattling in his chest that hurts.

He walks away, unsteady — he realizes he didn’t bring his cane with him. He doesn’t know how he could have forgotten. Each step pains him, and without support the ache inside that never subsides twists and forces him to remember…

_Ten paces, turning, and there’s Burr — his friend — across from him, and he wouldn’t, he was so sure, and then—_

He gets to the railing, dividing the land and sea. He leans over it, catching his breath.

Looks out into the distance. Squints — he doesn’t have his glasses, so he can’t if the blur is from fog or his poor vision or tears, but it doesn’t matter.

He sees nothing but the wide, blue expanse of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....yeah, that happened.
> 
>  **Notes!**  
>  \- Yes, that is a Spring Awakening reference  
> \- "Who knew the old man had so much blood in him" is from Macbeth  
> \- Hamilton didn't read Burr's final letter before the duel; I wonder if anything would've changed if he had  
> \- the "island spices" bit I took generously from bluecarrot, because I couldn't stop laughing  
> \- John is the one horrified at the awkward dinner talk because of he was the one who edited Hamilton's letters, the prude
> 
> It's a historical fact light chapter!


	15. Theo I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton returns several hours after he went off into town on horseback with the mission to bring her father home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise Theo chapter!

 

 

 

 

> _Dear Father,_
> 
> _I would say your sudden departure surprises me, but it does not, given to how reckless your nature is. Here at home (yes,_ home) _, you’ve left us baffled and at a loss, and some I dare say — hurt._
> 
> _And you have left me alone._

 

* * *

 

Hamilton returns several hours after he went off into town on horseback with the mission to bring her father home. Theo’s heart sinks when she sees that her father isn’t accompanying Hamilton on his slow approach back up the drive. For a brief, hopeful moment, she thought that maybe the men could reconcile their differences and accept each other as they are, so they could be truly happy.

However, it _is_ her father and Hamilton that she is talking about.

Hamilton lets out a pained wheeze as Al helps him off his horse. She thinks he’s going to crumple into the dirt but Al catches him, and he steadies himself with a hand on Al’s shoulder. He looks awful, but mostly ashamed — he won’t look at any of them until Eliza comes to his side and makes him focus on her. She touches his face, pushes back his sweaty hair, and asks, “What happened?”

“Burr is gone. He’s gone to England,” Hamilton says, and then he clings to Eliza and buries his face into her shoulder, stifling what sounds like…a sob? Eliza pats his back, but looks up at Theo. It feels sympathetic.

“He’s gone,” Hamilton repeats.

The words are hollow, foreign sounding in Theo’s ears. She can’t parse them together. Her father, _gone._ Something similar has been said to her before but it was a different kind of _gone._ Her father is okay. Alive. Just not _here._

Theo’s hand finds Angie’s, squeezes.

Hamilton pulls away from Eliza, and takes a step towards Theo. She leans into Angie, unsure.

“I was just too late,” Hamilton says, slow, and he’s speaking to Theo, directly. “I’m sorry. I did everything I could do.”

“You didn’t,” Theo replies, vicious, harsh enough for Hamilton’s sadness to turn into surprise.

Theo knows it’s rude, but her father isn’t here to reprimand her — he _left_ her — so she runs away. She leaves all the Hamiltons on the lawn as she runs up the stairs and through the house that isn’t hers, up to the room that she shares with Angie. She slams the door, lies on the bed, and cries like she hasn’t done since she was a little girl.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

>   _You told me that you’d always be there for me. I could have went with you. We are the same, given to fly._

 

* * *

 

Theo loves her father more dearly than anything in the world. He gave her opportunities other women could never have — an education many men envy, the space to have an _opinion_ , and the respect for herself as an equal. He saw that she never went without, especially after her mother died. She remembers when she was eleven years old and her father told her that her mother has passed away. She already knew when he told her, she wasn’t _stupid_ , but she stayed silent and let him talk.

 _I know how this feels,_ he had told her, _but I swear you’ll never be alone._

He hasn’t broken that promise, yet.

 

* * * 

 

 

 

 

> _But what will you do without me, Papa?_  

 

* * *

 

Her tears dry and the sun rises higher in the sky. The longcase clock chimes downstairs, indicating two hours have passed since she hid herself away. Not much has happened — other than Hamilton having an imaginary row with her father, shouting and slamming doors and cursing his existence.

Like a lover, scorned.

Theo almost feels bad for him.

She knows Hamilton is the reason why her father found it necessary to leave. The night previous, he took her aside to explain the elevated tension between him and Hamilton — that Hamilton kissed him and wanted _more._

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Theo had asked, hushed. Her opinion of Hamilton is well-known to her father — unfavorable — but if he makes her father happy, then so be it.

But judging by her father’s frantic state, she didn’t think that Hamilton made him happy. He shook his head, then nodded, and then shrugged. “It’s complicated,” he said.

“It’s always complicated,” she replied.

She had the feeling that he was keeping something from her, but she had figured that he would tell her when he was ready — secrecy is never spared between them.

And now he’s gone.

Eventually, someone comes into the room. Theo closes her eyes and pretends to sleep. Whoever it is will only try to make her feel better and she doesn’t _want_ to feel better — she wants to yell and kick things and cry.

The mattress dips with the weight of someone sitting on the edge.

“Theo.” It’s Al. Sweet, wonderful Al. “I know you’re awake.”

Theo grumbles. “I’m not.”

Al laughs. “My mistake,” he says. “If you were awake, I had something for you.”

She feels something tickling her arm. Paper. She opens her eyes and sees Al running an envelope against her. Focusing, she sees written on the front: _Theo._

She sits up and snatches it from Al, rips it open.

“It was just delivered,” Al says, but Theo doesn’t hear him, because she has her father’s words in her hands—

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _Theo,_
> 
> _By the time you read this, I will be on my way towards another place for an unknown amount of time. I am sorry for leaving you, my dearest — I would not do so unless I had no other choice. I hope that this letter that I’m posting from town will make up for the meager one you found this morning at breakfast. The things I write you in this letter I could not say in my first, for this I know will only be seen by you._
> 
> _Forgive your father for his mistakes. I make so many, and will continue to do so._
> 
> _I’m sure you’ve hazarded a guess why I had to leave; you’re a clever lady. So, let us not speak of him, or the confusion that plagues me. I would not — could not — let things become nonnegotiable between us again. Distance and time apart will reveal how things truly are, without the cloud of…distraction to lead me astray, or muddle my feelings._
> 
> _I took the first ship departing. It appears fate wants me in England. I’ve always wanted to see who we revolted against._
> 
> _If you send a letter by a cargo ship, it will be waiting for me when I arrive. It will be nice to have something from you after my long journey. I will check the post when I make landfall. Hopefully, I will not be disappointed (and if I am, I will assume that your letter was lost)._
> 
> _I’ll see you soon._
> 
>  

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until Al rubs his thumb across her cheek, wiping her tear away.

“I’m fine,” she says, softly. She sounds childish to herself, moody. Defensive, making it clear that she’s _not_ fine, and she won’t blame Al for leaving her alone, too.

But Al smiles — his grin crooked — and hands her his handkerchief. “Sure,” he says. “You’re the boss.”

She wipes her face, grateful for his kindness.

 

* * *

 

> _How dare you ask so much of me—? Asking me for words of comfort when you deserve admonishment. I know that you didn’t tell me of your plan to abscond because you knew that I would stop you. You would be correct._

 

* * *

 

Theo suspects that Hamilton doesn’t like her. It’s just as well because she doesn’t like him. She wonders if he sees her as a proxy for his anger towards her father — if a Burr is a _Burr_ to him. She has her father’s eyes and his wit and his disposition for quiet when upset.

She decides to ignore Hamilton and his attention-seeking behavior — she knows better than her father, who gives into him too easily. That’s one of her father’s greatest downfalls — begrudgingly lenient of those he’s fond of. But she has no such feelings for Hamilton, so she doesn’t care about Hamilton’s feelings.

She reconsiders it that evening after dinner — wherein Hamilton had been absent — when she goes into the library and finds Hamilton on the floor in a rather undignified fashion — flat on his stomach, and one arm reaching under the sofa.

“Come here, you stupid cat,” Hamilton says as he feels around with his arm, jerking his hand back when there’s the subsequent _hiss_. “ _Ow,_ you scratched me, you fluffy monster.”

“She’s a good cat,” Theo says, laughing, and Hamilton quickly turns to look at her. She covers his mouth to hide her laughter, but she can’t help it — it’s so funny. He scowls at her, and goes back to looking under the sofa.

“This cat is definitely a Burr,” Hamilton mutters. “Bad temperament, and takes delight in the pain of others.”

“Then why do you bother with her?”

“Because,” Hamilton begins, wincing when Cleo scratches his hand again, “ _because_ she’s going to starve to death and when your father comes back he will kill me for _real_ and he’ll hate me, but if I could feed his damn cat maybe he’ll like me again.”

It’s nonsense, and Theo gets the feeling that he’s only saying it to her because she’s there, but he looks so broken as he tries to reason with himself some way to bring her father back and fix everything, that she can’t help but feel sorry for him. He’s the person — man — that her father has affection for, and well. There must be something worthwhile to Hamilton.

Theo sighs, walks over, and sits on her knees next to him.

“She’ll be fine,” Theo says. “She’ll come out when she’s ready. I think you’re just scaring her.”

_Like you frightened my father into leaving._

Hamilton looks at her, blinks. Then, as though he realizes how ridiculous he must appear, he uses the sofa to push himself up to a standing position. It’s difficult for him — his side causing him pain as he gets off the floor — but Theo doesn’t offer to help. She watches Hamilton as he struggles, getting on one leg and then the next, then standing at his full height.

He brushes off his clothes, clears his throat, and then offers a hand out to Theo. She figures she’s been rude enough so she takes it, and then thanks him when she’s face to face to him. He nods, like _no problem_ , and then silence lingers between them. She feels as though she ought to say something, but that would be just for Hamilton’s benefit, so she does not.

Theo notices how weathered the man is — his eyes red, skin splotchy, hair tangled like he’s been running his hands through it. Miserable.

“I didn’t think he’d leave…” Hamilton’s voice trails off, creaks. “I didn’t know how much his absence would affect me.”

So he does care.

Why he’s admitting it to her, she doesn’t know. Maybe because there’s nobody else who knows the nature of their relationship. Perhaps to make her feel sorry for him and get her on his side. But all it accomplishes is making her angrier. She won’t pander to his sadness when it’s _his_ fault that he forced her father away, and she won’t help mend their problems when she knows that her father is better off without him.

“Perhaps,” Theo says, “you should’ve been nicer to him.”

And then she hurries from the room before Hamilton can say anything in return — she thinks he would either argue or cry, and she wouldn’t be able to handle either.

 

* * * 

 

> _I almost feel bad for H. He sulks around the house, guilty, verbally attacking anyone who has the nerve to speak to him. Then he retreats to his office making a show of slamming his door, only to come out an hour later and apologize, and whinge until someone tells him that it’ll be okay._
> 
> _You’ve done a number on him, Papa._
> 
> _I have no sympathy for the man. Or you, for that matter._

* * *

 

Before Theo goes to bed, she passes the library. The door is ajar, so she peeks inside.

It’s dim, but she can make out Hamilton sitting in a high-backed chair, watching Cleo lap milk from a dish at his feet. He looks more content than he’s been all day.

She leaves without him noticing her.

 

* * * 

 

> _However, I am mindful to know that my opinion of H is biased. Not everything about him is terrible. He tries to be a good man, and I believe that he thinks that his intentions are sincere. But that is the setback — what he thinks isn’t always true._

 

* * *

 

Angie is already in their shared bed when Theo goes to their room. Angie is awake, reading by candlelight, but when she sees Theo she marks her place in the book and sets it aside. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Theo says, with a smile — and what a relief Angie Hamilton is. Someone who makes her smile when everything is lost, someone who will always be there for her. Her best friend, her…

Angie watches as Theo changes out of her dress and uncomfortable underthings and into her silky nightgown. Angie lifts the blanket for Theo to join her, and Theo crawls into bed and presses close to her, kisses her cheek.

“My Theo,” Angie whispers, turning her head to kiss her on the mouth. Theo sighs into it, bringing her hand up to cup Angie’s face.

When she pulls away, Angie’s eyes are wet with tears.

“You won’t leave me, will you?” Angie asks, whispered on an exhale — like she’s afraid and—

It breaks Theo’s heart. She thinks that if her father liked Hamilton as she likes Angie, then he wouldn’t have left — because she could not imagine leaving her, ever.

“Never,” Theo promises.

 

* * * 

>  
> 
> _Do not worry about me. I know you wouldn’t have left me in a situation that would be unfavorable. The Hamiltons are kind to me. They welcome me as though I am one of their own — as they have done during our stay at the Grange. I am still an outsider, but Al and Angie make sure that I do not feel neglected or unwanted._

 

* * *

 

“I think your father hates me,” Theo says.

She knows that Hamilton doesn’t truly hate her — his hatred is saved for people like Thomas Jefferson, or for things like a blizzard too late in winter — but she says it so she can be reassured that he doesn’t. She doesn’t know why it bothers her so much, because she doesn’t particularly like the man. She must admit that he has some good qualities — he’s funny, he’s a good father, he’s wicked smart, and he’s generous with pouring wine — but that doesn’t excuse his less favorable traits. Such as: he can be extremely curt when he doesn’t want to speak with you.

He hasn’t spoken to her since the incident in the library. Often, they would go days without exchanging anything more than the customary, “ _good morning_ ,” but now he’s outright avoiding her.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Al says. “I think…he just doesn’t know what to say to you.” Angie nods in agreement, supporting her brother.

She’s known that. She imagines that Hamilton wishes she weren’t there at all, because then it would be easier to pretend that her father was never there.

“I don’t know what to say to him, either.” Theo bites her lip. “I’m not my father’s keeper. I can’t explain…whatever it is that’s happened.”

The three of them — herself, Al, and Angie — are sitting on the back lawn on a blanket spread on the ground, under the shade of an old oak tree. It’s their hideaway spot, taking advantage of having time away from everyone else so they can speak freely. It’s relaxing. Al sits cross-legged on one side, and Angie on the other, looking radiant in her buttercup-yellow dress that’s falling slightly off one shoulder.

To the best of her knowledge, the Hamilton children do not know about the liaisons between their fathers — just that a vague _something_ has happened, which could be anything. They think nothing of the tension because it’s always been there. Theo doesn’t intend to tell them anything different.

Pollen falls from the tree, lands in Al’s hair. Theo reaches forward and picks it from his springy curls, flicking it away.

“It’ll be fine,” Al says, but even his usual optimism sounds strained. “Your father will come home when he’s had time to think it over. He and my Pop have had worse arguments.”

It’s not all that reassuring. So, it _could_ get worse.

But is bloodshed worse than a broken heart?

Angie must sense her melancholy because she nudges her shoulder with hers playfully.

“Don’t worry,” Angie says. “I’m sure your father will have a lot of fun traveling.” She pauses. “Like Philip is.”

That always hurts. It turns a crisp spring air cold and a conversation quiet. Philip, the dead brother. The truth too terrible for Angie to accept. Theo understands the fantasy. After her mother passed, she often mused what it would be like if she were still alive. If she squeezed her eyes shut, she could feel the warm press of her lips to her forehead, like she used to do before she was too ill to wake her up in the morning, and she’d think of all the things she would do with her mother — but she quickly gave up those fantasies as they upset her father.

Theo can’t imagine what it feels like for Al, for it to be continually brought up like this. He’s blinking rapidly, and his jaw is clenched tight. He doesn’t say anything to contradict the perfect world where his oldest brother is off having adventures, because then at least, he exists.

It’s unfair. Enabling it is just as bad as Angie’s delusion, Theo thinks — but she has no right to say. She’s just her...

Whether or not she knows she’s the reason for the silence, Angie ends it. She says, “Pop must like your father, really. He doesn’t…linger on too many people like he does with him.”

 _Obsess, more like,_ Theo thinks.

Al nods. “It’s all about _Aaron Burr_. He calls him a coward,” he says, giving Theo an apologetic look before continuing, “but then he goes on to gush about how skilled Burr is at this-and-that.”

Theo scoffs. “Does he still think it’s shameful for you to be sweethearts with a coward’s daughter?”

A scarlet blush spreads across Al’s cheeks, accentuating his freckles. “He might have warned me that Burrs — how did he say it? _Will leave you the moment their icicle heart feels any compassion._ ” Al shrugs. “He didn’t say _not_ to date you.”

“But we aren’t,” Theo says.

“Correct,” Al agrees. “Although, he never believes me when I tell him.” He makes revolted face, scrunching his nose. “And then he tries to give me _advice_ on how to—”

“That’s quite enough.”

Al lets out a sigh of relief.

Somehow, both of their families think that Al and she would make a good pair — despite how much their fathers object to the idea of it. There might have been a chance with them if things were different, but things aren’t different…

Al was cute and funny and Theo had been flattered that he was clearly enamored with her. He liked her for her more notable qualities — namely, her wit. She never thought she’d have anything serious with him, especially with someone with the name _Alexander Hamilton_ (“That’s my Pop,” he had told her when they were alone, the first time, “call me _Al_.”), but then she kissed him and he trembled like a leaf and stammered apologies—

“Do you want to kiss me, Al?” Theo had asked, quietly.

He nodded, then shook his head. “It’s not because you aren’t attractive—”

“I know I’m attractive.”

Al let out a sound akin to a wheeze. “It’s just that…this feels odd. I think you’re wonderful and I really _really_ like spending time with you, but…” And then there was an inaudible muttering, him looking to his lap where he fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve.

“What?” Theo asked.

“It’s not like my brother said it’d feel like,” Al repeated, still not looking at her.

Theo lowered her voice. “Do you want to kiss boys, Al?”

His eyes shot up to hers. “No! I, uh.” He bit his lip, blushed. “I’ve already thought of that, too. I don’t want that either.”

He was gorgeous, but more importantly, honest. Theo was almost sorry that he wasn’t interested in her.

“But I have to do this, don’t I?” Al asked. “With someone?”

Theo shrugged. “Says who?”

He stared at her dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe she could question such things. His eyes lit up as he considered the possibility — that he could do what he wanted without the burden of family honor and expectations — but then his expression fell.

“I’m _strange_ ,” he said, but Theo took his hand, kissed his knuckles. That, he seemed to be agreeable to — he hummed and inclined his head towards hers.

“I’m strange, too,” Theo said. “We’ll make perfect friends.”

And three weeks later when he walked in on Theo and Angie kissing in the library, he was delighted. He wasn’t alone, and they formed a mutually beneficial triad to cover the truth from their families.

Angie sighs dramatically, bringing Theo back to the present.

“I feel like we’re letting down our families,” Angie says, almost pensive.

Al flinches.

“I think our fathers are the ones letting down our families,” Theo says, wry. The others laugh — they cannot disagree.

“Besides,” Angie says. “Philip will marry soon.”

Al presses his face to Theo’s shoulder, and lets out a shaky exhale.

 

* * * 

  

 

> _I shall be fine on my own._

 

* * *

 

With only the light of the waxing-crescent moon filtering into their room, Angie shudders with Theo’s head between her legs.

Angie’s hands find themselves in Theo’s hair, fingers curling in short curls, tugging when Theo noses against her warm sex. Theo loves this, having Angie spread before her and licking and rubbing until Angie has to cover her mouth to keep from alerting everyone in the house to what they’re doing.

They came upon this experimentally — a touch here, and touch there, finding out what feels good and what feels _great._ Theo had read some literature that’s erotic in nature, but that was catered to men and didn’t give many clues on how to pleasure a woman, and she certainly couldn’t ask her father what he did to make his whores happy, so—

Research.

It’s coming along nicely.

Theo slides in a finger, licks around it, and Angie lets out a whimper and her thighs tremble and Theo licks again, at that hidden sensitive spot, and then Angie comes, a cry muffled around where she’s biting her hand and Theo pulls back to kiss her mound as she rubs her clit with her thumb. She keeps the pressure through Angie’s peak, steady, and she gets what she wants — another rush, Angie clenching down wet on her finger and breathes out, “Theo.”

Theo kisses her as she crawls up next to her, kissing her stomach, nipples, throat. “Beautiful,” Theo says, placing kisses all over, and Angie giggles. Theo lies next to her, their sweaty skin sticking to each other. She kisses Angie with damp lips, flushing when Angie parts her mouth to taste herself on her.

“Beautiful,” Theo says again, because Angie is — always is. The best person she’s ever known.

Angie playfully hits Theo, turns on her side so their legs tangle together. She runs a hand up Theo’s body, lazy. They’ve both been brought off many times with hands and mouths but the quiet _after_ is enjoyable too — where they hold each other close and fall asleep talking.

Tonight, Angie is quiet. Theo doesn’t think much of it — it’s been a long day — and she doesn’t pry. She’s just about fallen asleep when Angie shifts next to her.

“Theo?”

“Hmm?”

“You always tell me the truth, right?”

Theo is wide awake, now. “Of course.” She can only make out the silhouette of Angie’s features. “Why?”

Angie hesitates, and then asks, “Did your father leave because of us?” Her breath hitches. “Did he know…that we…?”

Theo finds Angie’s hand and twines her fingers with hers. “He doesn’t know,” Theo says — one thing she has kept from her father, due to Angie’s wishes. “But he wouldn’t think of us any differently, if he did know.”

She doesn’t have to see Angie’s expression to know she isn’t convinced.

“Then why did he leave?” Angie asks. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“You know. You read the letter.”

Angie groans. “You’re keeping something from me, I know it,” she says. She moves closer to Theo, kisses her. “You _promised_ to tell me the truth.”

“Angie…”

“ _Theo._ ”

It’s useless — Angie is a _Hamilton_ , and will argue until her point is won.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Theo says, hushed.

“Not even Al?”

“Not even Al.”

Angie quiets, waiting for Theo to explain. Theo takes a deep breath, thinking how to make it concise and sensible…

“Our fathers,” Theo begins, “they’re like us.”

There. She’s said the damned thing out loud. Frankly, she’s relieved to speak of it with another. She just hopes that she won’t have to be more explicit…

“I don’t understand,” Angie says after a long, quiet moment. “How are they like us?”

Theo sighs.

“Like this,” Theo says, and she slides her hand between their bodies, touches Angie where she’s sensitive. Angie gasps as Theo continues, “They are attracted to each other.” She brings her hand up, touches her shoulder. “Intimately.”

She feels Angie shake her head against her. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Anymore ridiculous than us?”

“But — but my Pop wouldn’t. He wouldn’t _cheat_ on Mother again—”

“He hasn’t,” Theo says. “He and my father aren’t lovers. They just — ache for each other. And from what my father has told me, your mother knows of it.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Then why wouldn’t my father tell me?” Angie says, and she sounds like she’s near tears. Distressed. “Why wouldn’t he let me know, so I wouldn’t — so I wouldn’t think I was the only one who—?” A sob. “He never talks to me, anymore.”

Theo pulls Angie close, wrapping her arms around her thin body. She comforts her lover, rubbing her back and whispering, _I know_ , because there is nothing else to be said.

 

* * *

 

 

> _I will look after H, for I know you cannot help but worry over him — even if you don’t say so. However, I cannot promise that I will be able to keep him out of trouble._

 

* * *

 

Theo tries to see the Hamilton as others do — the kind father, the brilliant scholar, the interesting friend — but he remains a disappointment.

Especially when she catches him riffling through the drawer next to her bed.

She’s not surprised. He’s a _sneak_ — her father has admitted to that much. She watches him, amused, as he’s bent over thumbing through papers and belongings as he mutters to himself. He seems to be looking for something specific — she hopes so, because it’s quite unusual for a grown man to be looking through her things just _because._ She keeps watching him until he says, “ _Yes,_ ” and holds out a well-worn letter that Theo recognizes immediately, and starts to scan it.

She slams the door, making her presence known.

Hamilton stands bolt upright, tugs on his waistcoat, trying to appear blameless. He cannot, however, with the evidence in his hands. A sheepish grin forms on his face as he sees her flit her eyes down to it.

Theo raises her brow at him. “Really?”

He huffs, as if he were the one having his privacy invaded. He holds out the letter — the one her father sent for her _only._ “He is talking about _me_!”

Theo walks across the room, closing the space between them, and snatches the letter from his hand. “Not everything is about you,” she says, putting the letter safely in the drawer, and arranges her things back to their proper place. She turns on her heel to glare at him. “I know that’s difficult for you to understand.”

Hamilton stares at her for a long second before frowning. “You are just like your father.”

“Thank you,” Theo says, knowing he didn’t mean it as a compliment. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Is there anything else I can help you with, mister Hamilton?”

Hamilton taps his cane on the floor, purses his lips.

“He left me,” he says, and again Theo wonders why he is talking to her about this. She isn’t his confidant, and he doesn’t even _like_ her. But he continues, repeating, “He _left_ me,” like he’s wanting her to explain it in a way that wouldn’t injure him.

“We had plans,” Hamilton says, his voice becoming more hysterical. “We were to have my campaign for presidency, and—”

“You truly believed that would have succeeded?” Theo asks, skeptical.

Hamilton shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Is that the only reason why you are sad to see him go? For your own advancement in government?” Theo asks. Hamilton doesn’t immediately answer, and Theo lightly laughs. “Papa was right about you. You’re selfish, only care about yourself—”

“You’re wrong.” Hamilton is neurotic — shifting on his feet, his hands shaking, twitchy. “I _like_ Burr—”

“If you did, you’d know that you hurt him.”

“He hurt me first. _Literally._ ”

“You deserved to get shot,” Theo says, then respectfully adding, “Sir.”

“Well!”

“You act as though you’re the only one affected by this.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what it’s like to feel—”

Theo is angry — she’s tired of everyone’s suffocating _feelings_ and hers getting lost in the mix because she’s tenacious — everyone’s support. “You don’t know anything about me, or how I feel for another—”

Hamilton huffs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere than with her. “I know you are interested in my son, but—”

“Actually, it’s your daughter who I’m in love with.”

It resonates between them — Hamilton’s eyes widening and he’s actually rendered speechless, and Theo — she giggles, brightly. “I love Angie. We’re lovers.”

It’s the first time she’s said it. She loves her. She _loves_ her, and she’s pretty sure she loves her in return. All the poetry Theo has read — now she understands. She loves that Angie is the first thing she sees in the morning and that she goes to sleep at night with her at her side. She loves how Angie thinks of her, doing things like pressing flowers because Theo mentioned in passing she thought they were pretty and Angie wanted _a pretty girl to have something pretty forever._ She loves Angie’s beauty, her love for ephemera to keep things important to her. She loves listening to Angie teach her parakeets to sing, whistling songs that stay in her head. She loves how Angie takes her hand and says very very seriously _you’re the first person who sees me truly and doesn’t look at me like I’m a tragedy._

Theo bites down on a smile, it growing when she sees how faint Hamilton looks. He clears his throat, “Um,” and then sits on the edge of the bed. She worries for him — it looks as though his world has been shaken — and she touches his shoulder and asks, “Are you okay?” He nods.

“When did it start?” he asks when he can speak. Not _how_ or _why_ or an accusatory _what_ — Theo figures that out of anybody who she could tell, he’d understand what it means to like someone who is the same.

“About ten months ago,” Theo says. “After we moved in, Angie and I got close and then conversation over tea turned into more and…” She breaks off, grinning. She can’t stop smiling.

He swears. “How couldn’t I have noticed? I mean, I’m…” He waves his hand around as if to indicate his non-typical sexual preferences.

“You’ve been rather occupied.” She doesn’t mention that they’ve taken extreme caution so nobody else _would_ know. Long walks alone in the garden, making out under the tall oak tree, touching each other under the blankets after everyone else is asleep. Shared glances that wouldn’t mean anything unless you _knew._

Hamilton stares, far off. Theo has a flash of panic, that maybe he’s upset and now he’s going to send Angie away, and maybe send her away too since her father isn’t here to save her. She’s about to call Hamilton out on his hypocrisy because if he thinks she’s a miscreant, then he’s one too, but then he looks up and he—

And he looks lost.

“They were right,” Hamilton says. “I do ignore things when it’s not directly about me.”

Theo snorts. That’s the first time he’s realized this? Right _now_ it isn’t about him and he’s having a personal crisis. “You don’t even realize when you’re making things about yourself, do you?” she asks. “Here’s an example, for instance.”

He glares at her. Theo quietly apologizes, “Sorry if I’ve ruined the moment — or whatever.”

Hamilton sighs. “I’m the _worst_.”

“Oh, you aren’t that bad,” and Theo could kick herself for going back on her word and comforting Hamilton. But — he’s by no means the _worst_ and he does try, at times. She sits next to Hamilton and pats his hand. “I guess you’re alright.”

“I am?”

Theo nods. “And we meant our relationship to be a secret.”

“Of course.” Reassured, Hamilton’s mouth turns up into a smile. “Angie has seemed happier lately. I knew it was because she was spending time with you, but I didn’t know it was because, ah. Well. You know.”

He blushes, his cheeks going pink, just like Al does when embarrassed.

“I’m happier, too,” Theo says, and suddenly Hamilton feels more approachable, now that he knows. He seems genuinely happy for her — his smile is wide and warm.

“Who else knows?” Hamilton asks.

“Just Al. He helps cover for us.” It’s not quite a lie.

“So your father doesn’t know?”

Theo shakes her head. “Please don’t tell him, I want to when we’re ready.”

Hamilton holds his hands out. “How am I going to tell him? He’s on a boat.”

“ _Please_.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And don’t tell anybody else, either.”

“I won’t.” Hamilton smirks at her. “You’re alright. I like that you’re bold.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing, coming from you,” Theo says. But something eases inside her, knowing that Hamilton doesn’t hate her. Theo believes that he’ll keep his word — he has his own secrets, after all.

Hamilton responds with a short laugh, and then stands, using his cane for support. She thinks the conversation is over until he stops at the door and looks over his shoulder.

“If you write to Burr, tell him…,” Hamilton says, his voice wavering. “Tell him…”

 _What_ of all the things Alexander Hamilton has to say, what does he say when it counts most?

…but Hamilton walks away, saying nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

>   _H says he misses you, and thinks about you everyday._

* * *

 

 

> _I cannot think about how much I miss you, for I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the debate over who Theo is dating is complete.
> 
> Hopefully, I will continue to update more than once every month and a half.
> 
> My only note is:  
> Remember that Angie Hamilton had a breakdown after Philip's death and talked about him as if he were still alive. 
> 
> Thank you all for being great!


	16. Aaron VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks out on the Atlantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! An update.
> 
> Warning, of sorts. Burr isn't in a very good place now. Take that into account when reading.

Aaron wakes up on the floor.

He lies there for a moment, his heartbeat still rapid from a dream forgotten, tangled in his ratty blanket, face pressed against dank wood. His entire world lurches, going unsteady. Perhaps he is still in a dream? It’s almost peaceful, if he shuts his eyes. But no — there are distant shouts and he comes to, blinking awake as he remembers where he is—

Ship. Two weeks out on the Atlantic. Alone.

He groans as he stands, stumbling as the ship pitches over another wave. He reminds himself that it could be worse — things could always _always_ be worse — _but not by much_ , his pessimism interjects. The other passengers are unfriendly to him, the bread is moldy, and he’s tossed from his cot on the regular — he suspects the room is built on a slope.

But he reminds himself that this was his choice. He left.

He gets back into bed and stays awake until the waves calm, thinking of all the ways it could be worse.

 

* * *

 

By some miracle, he’s in his bed and not on the floor in the morning. He takes that as a sign and aims to have a better day than the previous (and the one before that, and the one before that…), but by the time he dresses and goes down to the galley, breakfast is gone except for the moldy bread. So, the day is already horrible.

He seems to always be too late.

He skips the bread and settles for coffee. It’s lukewarm and in a chipped mug, but it’s strong and bitter and just what he needs, waking him up when he had been thinking about going back to his cabin and napping.

Instead of giving into brooding, he tries again to make it a good day. He goes up to the deck, where he spends the majority of his time when not holed away in his room. Everywhere else is too crowded, with too many people asking questions he doesn’t want to answer or doesn’t have the answer to.

( _Who are you? Where are you from? Where are you going? Are you traveling alone? Why are you alone? Do you want to be alone?_ )

The deck is blessedly empty. Aaron doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the view — all open air and ocean and nothing else except the line where the sky and ocean meet. A change in the shades of blue is the only thing to distinguish one from the other.

That’s what’s out there, and here…

He walks to the railing and leans over, looks down. The water on the surface is crystal clear but underneath it is dark and unknowingly deep. There’s something about it, empty yet consuming at the same time, with a call to come closer. Peaceful.

It would be easy to go overboard — just a push with his feet and hands letting go of the railing — and he’d fall into that nothingness and nobody would know, except for Theo when she’d start to worry when months pass without word from him. But even then she wouldn’t know what he did. He’d be lost.

He steps back and sits on the observation bench that’s a good distance away.

That isn’t the plan…

He watches an indiscriminate point of water slip further and further away until he loses sight of it.

Time and distance are absent on the ocean. There’s nothing but the stars to track the journey — and the sky has always been foreign to him — and time is irrelevant when it isn’t a fixed point. He feels the shift of time as they travel further east, the sunset coming sooner each day. It’s isolating.

Out here, he thinks of his sister. When they were children, he had wished that the two of them could get on a ship like this and escape to…anywhere but where they were. He almost succeeded, once, but his uncle dragged him off and he got a beating for it — but it was worth the try.

Eventually he had escaped to college and Sally escaped, too. She married the first man who showed her any attention and was nice to her and then she moved away, and then died from something she was never forthcoming about. Or maybe she didn’t know. They didn’t really stay in contact when they moved away from home. He turned out okay, so he figured she did, too. Their uncle didn’t hit her as much as he did to him, but there a lot of things she didn’t tell him, as older sisters protect their little brothers, so—

He’s grateful for his solitude. It’s something very different than loneliness. His thoughts roam, then escape, going somewhere out in the sea. Like feathers, blowing away in the breeze, landing in the water and floating away until they get too heavy and drown.

Aaron likes being by himself. He doesn’t care for the company of the strangers on the ship just because they’re there, and he doesn’t want conversation when all he wants is to be left alone. Can’t they see he’s occupied?

However, some time around noon — or so Burr guesses, based on the height of the sun in the sky — a fellow traveller no older than twenty-five with crisp trousers and his jacket slung over his shoulder flops in the seat next to Aaron and asks, “Travelling for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Aaron growls, “so leave me to it, and find your own.” The guy gets the message and leaves, leaving Aaron alone—

 _Business_ , Aaron thinks, because _pleasure_ makes him think of Hamilton and he had been doing a really great job not thinking of him so far — he left and didn’t look back — but now he can’t stop thinking about Hamilton’s dark eyes or clever smile or the curve of his hips or the feeling of his lips against his…

He reaches into his pocket and takes out his pocket watch, checking the time even though he knows it’ll read seven-past-three — he stopped bothering to wind it two days into his journey when time became irrelevant, when he stopped caring. The only reason he continues to carry it around instead of shoving it in his suitcase is because the Hamiltons gave it to him and he likes that reminder every time he feels it heavy in his pocket, because he _has_ been thinking of Alexander — and Eliza, too. He curses his treacherous mind, he doesn’t want to think of them, he doesn’t want to think of what he is missing and how he probably hurt them, and he doesn’t want to think of them together, and…

The time on the watch still reads the same as before. Unmoving. It is measuring them on pause — or when they ended.

 

* * *

 

And that’s how it goes for the rest of the trip. It’s either that or throw himself overboard, but he thinks a worse punishment is to suffer through the burdens of his mistakes. He lets his hair grow out into a short fuzz because he’s too despondent for the upkeep (but shaves his face because a mustache looks terrible on him), and he eats one meal a day. When he’s not on the deck, he stays in his cabin, writing in his journal, smoking, and masturbating to nothing in particular — definitely not to the fantasy of a raven-haired smart-mouthed immigrant — because the only woman on board would rather the company of her husband.

Aaron keeps himself entertained during the voyage, and a few days past a month of travelling at sea, they make landfall just after sunrise. Disembarking is surprisingly simple. He was born within the King’s allegiance and his parents were British subjects, so he’s admitted into the country without resistance.

As he walks away with his papers in his hands, he finds himself a little disappointed there wasn’t an issue, that when he gave his name he wasn’t told _you have to go back._

But instead he idly wanders London streets. He doesn’t get far, fatigued by carrying his trunk with him, so he finds a bench and sits, observing the scene around him.

The city is reminiscent of New York but not quite; the buildings are closer together — like they’re running out of space to put them, the weather is dreary but everyone strolls around which indicates it’s normal, and the air feels…grimy.

No wonder England wanted America for themselves.

It’s some time later — he doesn’t know how long, his watch still no more than a souvenir of what was — when a carriage stops in front of him.

“You going somewhere?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” Aaron says. There’s always a destination.

“Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron says, and it’s as though for the first time he realizes he _doesn’t_ know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he doesn’t know if it was a good decision, but it’s too late for that. He doesn’t have a plan where to stay or who to visit because he didn’t expect to get this far — he knows of a few people in London but he didn’t send word beforehand and he doubts they’d give him lodging, thinking he’d be too much of a liability to have around.

The driver stares at him blankly, like he thinks Aaron is too stupid to live and should rot in the street. Because honestly, who impulsively travels across the ocean on a self-imposed exile?

And he thinks, _it sounds like something Hamilton would do._ But Hamilton didn’t, Aaron is the one who left — he left Hamilton behind.

The driver clears his throat and the horse shifts, both impatient.

“Could you direct me to an inn that’s affordable for long-term stay and where I’ll be left alone,” Aaron asks, adding, “but is not too ill-repute.”

The driver thinks for a moment. “How about medium-repute?”

“Perfect.” Aaron shoves his trunk onto the carriage, as the driver makes no effort to help, and then he pulls himself up the seat.

 _The start of an adventure_ , Aaron thinks.

 

* * *

 

 _Medium-repute_ is the best way to describe the inn. The driver leaves (with no more than a _good luck_ ) and Aaron takes in the shabby surroundings — faded brick, dirty windows, rusty hinges, vines growing up the wall, trash on the ground — he might have thought it was dilapidated if he passed it by on his own. His intrepidity isn’t as he had believed and he’s ready find somewhere else to stay, but then the name of the inn catches his eye—

_The Wayward._

He laughs. He’s definitely staying here.

The interior is slightly better than the exterior. Dark wooden floors, covered with a well-worn rug in the middle of the room. Tables and clusters of chairs by the windows. A small bar. An inviting fireplace. Only a mild smell of mildew. He’s certainly stayed in worse places, but there’s something about the _feel_ of it… Off.

There are a few other wayward patrons in the main room — a weathered old man by the fireplace drinking something out a mug, two young women playing cards at a table, a rotund guy reading the newspaper, a woman near his own age wrapped in a frayed shawl — but they hardly give him more than a glance before going back to their own business. That’s exactly what Aaron had been wanting. Discretion. He wonders what hardships of life led these souls here to this place. He feels their misery resonate with his, a suffering that only those afflicted with it can recognize, and he wonders if they can feel his, too. Perhaps this is some kind of purgatory for those who have outlived their usefulness…

Aaron checks in, giving the surname _Edwards_ , furthering himself from his identity — he came all this way to escape, so Aaron Burr doesn’t exist, not here — and as an anti-homage to his grandfather. He’s given a key and a towel and no questions are asked.

“Supper is included with the daily rate,” the innkeeper says. “Other meals and drink will cost you extra.”

“Sure,” Aaron says.

The innkeeper looks over his thick spectacles. “Don’t expect the food to be appetizing. This isn’t some fancy place.”

“Noted.” Aaron doesn’t want to talk and he doesn’t care about food, he wants to go upstairs and sleep for a week and then maybe a week more. He puts the key in his pocket and his fingers brush against his watch — his pulse gets caught in his throat remembering _Alex—_

Interrupting, there’s a touch on his arm. Annoyed, he looks and his irritation quickly vanishes because there’s someone he didn’t see before — she _couldn’t_ have been there because he would have noticed her. She’s young and has a voluptuous figure, round breasts spilling out of her dress and a posture that means to show them off. She’s the first beautiful thing he’s seen since he left America, and Aaron tells her so, not subtle at all, leaning on the counter and looking at her breasts, making sure she sees him looking. She doesn’t even blush and that — _that_ is good.

“Let me help you with your things,” she says, picking the towel off the counter. There’s a trace of a French accent, suggesting it’s been a while since she’s lived in France. Maybe, she had escaped from her home, too.

“I’m sure mister Edwards can handle that.” The innkeeper sounds almost bored, as though this isn’t new behavior for her. The woman just smiles, and touches Aaron’s arm again.

“I can handle it,” she says, and she’s talking only to Aaron now. “Don’t you need me to help you in your room?” She traces her fingers up his arm. “It’s my job.”

Aaron is good at this — women, flirting, sex — and he responds in kind, because maybe filling a woman will numb his grief, fatigue, everything. Fuck away the feelings. As long as the woman looks undiseased and is unmarried and willing, he’ll have her.

He tells the innkeeper to have his trunk brought up later and he lets the woman — whore, that’s what she is — lead him to his room, up the stairs, away from the others. When he stops too long to look at the peeling wallpaper and listen to the noises behind closed doors, she gropes him with a confident hand and says, “I can blow you here if you want,” but he pushes her onward and she obliges and all he can think about is how tight his pants are and he wants needs wants.

When they get to his room — at the end of the hall — she takes the key from him because he’s too jittery to fit it in the keyhole — she makes a jibe _I hope you can do better sticking other things in_ and he growls and presses against her and she grinds back against him, _fuck_ — and she unlocks the room for them, dragging him inside and shutting the door behind him. Aaron doesn’t have a chance to be disappointed by his lodgings — the woman throws the excuse-of-going-upstairs towel on the single armchair in the room and immediately goes to her knees, a position she seems comfortable with. Aaron watches her unfasten his breeches and pull them to his knees, and her eyes widen in delight at the sight of his hard cock. She takes it in her hand and oh god yes it’s been too long. She licks the head and strokes his length, working him up to full hardness and then — bliss.

“I knew you wanted this,” she says. She sucks at the head before pulling off. “A man gets needy when he’s all alone.”

“Yes,” Aaron agrees. He’s alone and needs. _Wants._ He pushes forward, encouraging her to take him in her mouth again. She gives a teasing lick and then stands, tossing her hair over her shoulders, asking, “How do you want me?” and Aaron quickly undresses. Neck cloth, coat, waistcoat, shirt, shoes, breeches, stockings — he closes his eyes and imagines hands other than his own taking them off, clever fingers hot against his skin, stubble rough against his thighs—

He sits on the foot of the bed, nude, and looks up at his _amusement_. She puts on a show for Aaron, stripping and letting her dress and shift fall into a silky puddle on the floor, revealing her bare legs and the wonderful apex between her thighs where he’s aching to push inside her. She reaches down between her legs, touches there, and then turns around for Aaron to help her with her corset. He unlaces it, and that falls to the floor, too. She’s beautiful, his hands going over her waist where there are indentations from where the stays were pressed tight against her, and further down, lingering on her nice round ass.

“Before any of that,” she says, turning and holding out her hand — waiting for payment.

Courteous to the inn’s most valued employee, Aaron scrounges in his coat for money. He takes a handful and starts putting coins in her outstretched hand, not sure the value of a good lay in this currency. Any amount would be worth it, if he’s honest — he’s so goddamn hard it hurts and he’d pay anything to get that sweet mind-numbing pleasure.

Eventually, she must figure it’s enough to deal with him, saying, “thanks,” and setting the money in her shoe, safe.

“Now, where were we?” she asks, and Aaron can’t wait any longer. He grabs her by the arm, half tosses her down on the bed, and climbs atop her. She laughs good-natured as he positions himself between her legs.

“Eager?” she asks and she has no idea — and she reaches between them to help him go inside her, and she’s wet and warm and makes a lovely sound as he fills her and she’s anything he could want—

He fucks her hard, focused on the feeling of a body tight around him and skin against skin, a whimper in his ear, and for a moment, he forgets.

 

* * *

 

After the excitement has gone and the whore cleans up between her legs with the only towel and dresses and takes her money and Aaron has time to think, the shame sets in.

He doesn’t regret it. There’s nothing like the thrill of having sex with someone whose name he doesn’t know — there’s nothing ulterior about it, no concealed feelings. Just primal basic needs met. It could be anybody. Well, almost anybody, as long as they shut up and didn’t _say_ things and that’s why it could never be Hamilton—

With nothing other than his hand for weeks, finding pleasure with a woman fulfilled that pent-up frustration and craving, but now, sticky and naked in a too-small bed in a foreign land — much less, a country he nearly died to gain independence from — all of his recent decisions weigh on him.

He regrets leaving.

He doesn’t regret leaving.

He regrets leaving because of _him._

No. Forget him. Forget Hamilton, he’s — he’s not the cause of his actions. Aaron has his free will. He is in control. He left _him._ Alexander Hamilton is not a predetermination. They are two separate orbits, passing by each other but never intersecting, kept away by the same magnetism that draws them near.

But even an ocean away, Aaron feels the pull of Hamilton, he’ll never be able to get far enough…

Hamilton is surely doing okay without him. Hamilton probably isn’t even thinking of him. Maybe he was disappointed for a few days — at most — but then went on with his life, because he expected Aaron to leave. _Coward_ , Hamilton had called him. Maybe Aaron is a coward, but it was also cowardly to _stay_ , to stay and not acknowledge what is — what was — between them.

Aaron will be okay, too. Eventually. Life is in flux and there is always going to be a fall before a surge. For now, he’ll make do. He’s been in London for only a few hours and he’s already enjoyed himself by seeing some lovely sights. He can’t wait to write to Theo and tell her the first thing he did after renting a room was—

Oh, no. _Theo,_ how could he forget her, especially after scolding her into writing to him after he abandoned her—?

He dresses quickly into the same clothes, rushes downstairs and outside and circles around the block before he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. He asks for directions to the post office and doesn’t stop until he’s there and has Theo’s letter in his hand.

Oh! His wonderful, dutiful daughter sent him a letter after all — not that he had any doubt she would. She knows that nothing puts him in better spirits than her words, and she is more gracious to him, her lousy father, than he deserves. People look at him like he’s a madman, and he supposes he might appear as such, holding the letter to his chest like it’s treasure and talking aloud, but they don’t understand how much he needed this—

He opens it on the street, and reads it as he walks back. He gets lost on unfamiliar streets and is going nowhere, but it doesn’t matter with Theo’s words in his hands.

As he reads he swears at himself. Of course, Theo scolds him with ridicule, which he wouldn’t expect nothing less from her ( _I would say your sudden departure surprises me, but it does not, given to how reckless your nature is_ ), is reprimanding ( _You have left me alone_ ), skepticism lined with scorn ( _But what will you do without me, Papa?_ ), and is wicked smart ( _I know you didn’t tell me of your plan to abscond because you knew I would stop you_ ). It’s odd, how Theo’s words can give him great joy but also hurt — and he feels awful all over again.

Theo gives an update on the household — she writes of Hamilton being an obstinate pain (believable) and of Hamilton missing him (unbelievable) and _thinks about him everyday_ (impossible). He’d think she’s fooled by Hamilton but taught her better than that. She’s lying to comfort him, and if that isn’t horrible enough, she says—

_I cannot think about how much I miss you, for I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else._

What has he done?

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, his wayward self finds its way back to _The Wayward._

Again, everyone in the main room disregards him when he enters. They’re probably all too preoccupied with their own worries to care.

Aaron goes to the fireplace — his clothes damp, caught in a storm on the walk back — and sits across from the old man. He hasn’t moved since Aaron arrived this morning, and still has the same cup from before. Aaron looks away, takes off his coat, giving the man the same solitude that the other inhabitants of the place do for him.

Minutes pass, and the chill evaporates from Aaron’s bones. He takes out Theo’s letter from where he hid it away to protect if from the rain, and reads it again, and again, each time the words getting sewn more deeply inside…

“Are you the new fellow?”

Aaron looks up, the croaky voice startling him. The old man is turned his way with a half grin but his eyes don’t meet Aaron’s — they’re directed to the corner, and are a smoky, milky gray. He’s blind.

“I suppose so,” Aaron replies. So he was the subject of discussion when he was out of the room. Cool.

“Sorry,” and it’s a sincere apology from the man. He doesn’t have to explain what it’s for — Aaron understands.

He holds out his mug, offering it to Aaron. Aaron shrugs, then flushes because he realizes the man can’t see him, good going Aaron — and then he takes it from him. Upon closer inspection he sees that the drink is a strong spirit, dark in color and scented strongly enough to make him question drinking it.

He does, anyway — drinks without tasting it, and it burns all the way down.

“It helps,” the man says when Aaron puts the mug back in his outstretched hand.

“Sure.” Aaron coughs, the liquor still burning.

“Drink, and women, eh?” The man laughs. “Michelle told me you were an alright guy. She’s a good lady. Fun. Charitable.”

He means the whore, Aaron realizes.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “She’s, uh, nice.”

The old man laughs to himself again, and drinks — doesn’t wince at the taste — and settles back into the chair.

“You’ll be fine,” he says.

To Aaron, it sounds like something that he’s used to saying, as though he’s been saying it to himself for a very, very long time.

 

* * *

 

That evening Aaron sleeps like the dead, and wakes in the morning confused as to where he is, but then it comes back to him all at once. He’s thousands of miles from everything he knows, and all alone.

He lies in bed, staring at the suspicious water stain on the ceiling, and then out the small window that reveals another overcast day. He considers turning over and going back to sleep but hunger gnaws at him, so he drags himself out of bed and rummages through his trunk for clothing, dresses, and goes downstairs to the main room.

The old man isn’t there and it’s not like Aaron wanted to talk to him, anyway, but there’s nobody else’s table to join — the woman with a shawl (who he had been hoping to chat-up) has a different colored shawl and is talking to a man who he hadn’t seen yesterday, the two young women are drinking coffee with the large man, and there’s a light-skinned man sitting alone giving the _don’t talk to me_ vibe.

Aaron is about to go back upstairs to fetch his umbrella and find somewhere else to eat, but then he notices the whore — _Michelle_ , the old man had said — sitting at a table in the corner. She sees him, her face lighting up and waving him over, and, well. How can he decline a lady’s invitation?

Before he’s even seated, she says, “If you buy me breakfast, I’ll suck your dick afterward.”

Ah, bargaining.

“Only if I can eat at you, too,” Aaron says, _smooth_ , smiling as he leans back in his chair.

She raises her brow. “You better hold up on that promise.”

He does. After a hearty breakfast of boiled eggs and sausage (Aaron getting slightly flustered, thinking of Hamilton’s dumbass remarks), they go back to his room. Michelle lays on Aaron’s bed fully clothed and lifts her skirts — Aaron dives in, pressing his face against her sex and eats her out until she comes, and then like any proper business transaction, she reciprocates, pulling his cock out of his breeches and blowing him until completion.

Sweaty and uncomfortable afterward, he bathes. He has a tub dragged into his room and heats water on the fire, filling it enough to relax in. He scrubs off the filth of travel and shame, rubs at the short hair he’s unaccustomed to.

After washing off, he stays in the tub, reading old newspapers that he gathered from downstairs. The oldest dates back only a couple of weeks, but he reads them to see what he’s missed in the world. Nothing much — the same animosity between Britain in France remains, President Jefferson ( _gag_ ) did something insignificant, Lewis and Clark reached the west coast of America, and there was drama at the local baking competition last week. As he finishes them, he sets them on the floor, and soon, the bathwater is chilly and he has nothing else to read.

There’s no news of Hamilton within the pages. He assumes that no news is good news. He doesn’t know what he was looking for — maybe Hamilton started another war or wrote another essay about him…

That evening, he writes to Theo. He tells her he’s safe at his destination, gives the address where to send correspondence, says that he’s well-fed and well-tended to, and—

_I do not miss Hamilton, and don’t you dare lie and tell him any differently._

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he receives a repeat offer of food-for-sex from the resident whore, but he’s in a hurry to leave for the day while there’s still the first rays of bright sunshine since he’s been here. He doesn’t want to pass it up, though, so he fingers her under the table while they eat, her talking dirty to him under her breath, and then she goes to her knees in the stairwell and sucks him off with expert efficiency, wipes her mouth and says, “Thanks,” before going back to main room.

It’s a nice day, so he decides to walk. He stops at several places on his way, buying tobacco and a bar of soap (the latter because the inn charges an astronomical amount for their own) and browses a bookstore he wants to come back to later. He only gets lost twice, and he arrives at his destination at half-past eleven. He knocks on the door before he loses his nerve, and almost immediately a tall, excited man answers the door. Aaron hardly is finished introducing himself before the man drags him inside, saying, “I’m Jeremy Bentham, but I suppose you knew that—”

Bentham is a friend of a friend, but Aaron had sent word to him anyway, asking to call on him. He didn’t expect a response but Bentham answered within hours, saying that he’d _love to meet him_ and _he’s heard many things about him, good and bad,_ and that they have _lots to talk about._ As Bentham guides them to his sitting room, chattering the entire way, Aaron feels at ease with him right off. He’s cordial, but doesn’t abstain from the truth, saying, “Word is you’re a rogue, but I’d like to form my own opinion of you.”

Aaron has an instant, natural affinity with Bentham. Bentham has a tongue-in-cheek humor and is wicked smart. He was admitted to Oxford at age twelve, was somewhat of a prodigy, and he isn’t at all modest about it. Brilliance like that is worthy of flaunting. He’s about ten years older than Aaron but he carries his age well — squared jaw, light brown hair tied back with a ribbon, broad shoulders, eyes lined with slight crinkles like he smiles wide and often. Aaron likes him, a lot.

“Tell me about you,” Bentham says, and what is there to tell? Aaron starts by giving a similarity, that he went to college when he was thirteen but he could have gone at eleven if they’d let him, then there was the war and he walked to Quebec because it seemed like the best thing to do at the time, and then he kneeled in pink snow when he tried to recover the body of his commanding officer but it was too late, and then he finished his education and became a lawyer and worked next door to the most wonderfully infuriating man ever, and then he had a child and then his wife died, and why is he telling him all of these things? But he keeps on — that there were successes and failures and then a particular failure and then something else happened but it’s okay because Hamilton didn’t die and then—

“…and now I’m here,” Aaron says, completing the heavily-abridged story of his life.

“I see.” Bentham doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “So you’re in London because…?”

“It was the destination of the first ship that was available,” Aaron replies. When Bentham laughs, he continues, “It’s _true._ I didn’t care where I went, I just needed something different.”

He sips the tea that Bentham’s housekeeper had brought in earlier. It’s gone cool. He stabs the lemon slice with his spoon while he waits for Bentham to respond, to ask _why_ he needed to get away, but Bentham just smiles at him. Aaron had been correct in his suspicion — his smile is great.

Aaron continues, “But I am also interested in the political climate.” It’s no secret that America favors England more than the French now that they are many years post war, and vice versa. He thinks that if he could talk to important people here and see what they want, then maybe he could discuss a future candidacy, a comeback in American politics—

“Nobody’s going to talk to you,” Bentham says, and then adds, “Sorry to be blunt, new friend, but most people either don’t want to be associated with you, or don’t know who you are.”

Aaron shrugs. “It’s not much different than at home.”

“Do you deserve it?”

Aaron _really_ likes Bentham. He’s unashamedly honest, charming, brilliant — he reminds him of—

“I have something that might interest you.” Aaron carefully reaches into his inner pocket and takes out two worn books — _The Federalist,_ volumes one and two. He doesn’t know what possessed him to bring the stupid things, he hasn’t read them in years, but when he was packing they found their way in.

“You can borrow these,” Aaron says, handing them over. Bentham laughs, but takes them.

“Is this to convince me?” he asks. Bentham had expressed negativity when the colonies broke away, writing essays against the American ideals and philosophy.

“It’s not treason anymore, Englishman,” Aaron says, teasing. Bentham rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. He opens one volume to a dog-eared page.

“What’s with the marked ones?” Bentham asks. “Your favorites?” He flips through the pages, past more marked sections.

 _Oh._ Aaron had forgotten.

“Not necessarily,” he says. “They’re all by the same author. Hamilton.” When he got the books — given to him by Hamilton himself, which he took as _fuck you, you could written these with me_ — he went through and marked the ones he thought were by Hamilton. Too curious for his own good, he asked Hamilton to confirm or deny if he was correct, and he still remembers how Hamilton had been insulted by him marking some Madison-penned ones as his, and then identified thirty-two additional ones, making _fifty-one_ in total.

‘They’re worth reading,” Aaron says. “Even the ones with faulty ideas are well-written.”

“You have quite a high opinion for someone you shot,” Bentham says, amused. It’s good-natured but also — questioning. Aaron might have left out a few things when speaking — not explaining much past, _I shot him and he lived and now we work together._

“I crippled the man,” Aaron says, as if that should explain everything.

“So?” Bentham asks. “What does that have to do with you? Was it not a fair duel?”

“It’s _everything_ to do with me _,_ ” Aaron says, and he knows that he’s being argumentative when Bentham is only trying to have conversation, but he doesn’t know what he’s been though, he doesn’t know…he doesn’t know about him and Hamilton, he doesn’t know that they are — they are—

“Hamilton and I—”

Aaron stops mid-sentence, realizing that he’s being incredibly obnoxious and rude — does he do that often? Is this why nobody likes talking to him?

He stands, apologizes, and leaves before Bentham can say anything more. He manages to find his way back to the inn without getting lost — a small miracle — and collapses into one of the tattered chairs in the main room. He lights his pipe with a candle and smokes until his nerves calm.

The lady with the shawl is there — today, she has an emerald green shawl around her shoulders — and quietly sits next to Aaron. They haven’t exchanged any words in the days that he’s been there, and they continue their silence, until she speaks, “When are you going to ask me?”

“What?”

“To go to my room and fuck me.”

He cannot deny such boldness, and he wants her, so he does as she suggests — follows her to her room. It’s just as sad as his own room, even more so because it’s lived in. He thinks of asking her how long she’s been at _The Wayward_ but she’s taking off her clothes, starting with tossing the shawl to the chair. He watches her; she seems detached from the act, methodical, and when she’s bare she sits on the bed, waiting. He strips down, joining her. She looks him up and down, like she’s _pleased,_ and runs her hands down his body, over skin that’s much darker than hers, and then down, touching him.

It’s wordless sex. She’s responsive, pushing back against him, breath shuddering. Aaron knows that she’s using him as much as he’s using her, and that’s okay. She grips his arms tighter when he goes in her deep and her boney hips press against his, but she’s beautiful, silent and grim — and when Aaron is close, she rubs his back and makes shushing sounds, _shh shh_ , calming.

He hides his face against her neck, so he won’t have to see the way she looks at him.

 

* * *

 

That night when he sleeps — when he finally sleeps, kept awake too long by the dreadful thing that is life — he dreams of a friend sometimes forgotten.

 _Bellamy_ , dearest Jonathan. They are young, like they used to be — but that’s the only way he knew Bellamy, never having a chance to grow old, his life cut short at twenty-four. Aaron dreams of them in the war, sharing a tent, lying together close. Closer than they should be. Bellamy is half turned away, shadows falling on his face, but he presses against Aaron and sighs happily — is this what he wanted, before? If he had only told Aaron, he would have…

Aaron wants to see his face. It’s been a lifetime. He touches Bellamy’s arm, begs him to turn over, and he does and—

It’s Hamilton, _Alexander_ with his clever, hungry grin coming closer, his mouth dangerously close to his and—

Aaron wakes up aching, in more ways than one. The ache in his chest he can’t do anything about, but the other he takes care of, eyes closed and chasing the image of a dream.

 

* * *

 

He has a standing arrangement with the whore. Michelle. He buys her a good meal and she takes care of him. Enjoyment of a body to distract him from everything else. A few coins in addition will get him more, and he often wants more — and sometimes again in the evening. Sometimes she’s unavailable when he wants to lay with her — she does have other clients — he’ll go down to the lonely woman down the hall and bang her for free, but he feels more depressed than usual when he leaves her. He seeks out the other women in the inn who are willing for a _good time_ ; there are a few, and he fucks them all. It’s a challenge, of sorts. A Swede who didn’t speak a language Aaron knows, but they were able to communicate just fine. A woman who he thought was a Puritan but is very much _not_. The woman whose husband is always gone all day for his salesman job. Aaron is proud of himself when he realizes he’d had them all, except the two young women who play cards in the main room, and a widow who looks too frail for a romp.

A week passes, then another, and his wants do not lessen — if anything, they increase. He won’t admit why — who he wants — no —

Grunting, taking her from behind, he’s breathing hard and it’s sweaty, skin sliding on skin, but it’s good, a body tight around him and sweet sounds and if he closes his eyes—

“Alex.”

He had hoped that maybe the plea was to himself, but no such luck. After, Michelle lies next to him, cooling down, a snug fit with both of them on their backs, and she asks, “Who’s Alex?’

Aaron pretends not to hear her.

How could he have done that — let himself think of Hamilton in that way? Bare and desperate under him? It’s selfish of him to muse about things he can’t have, the impossibility that is Hamilton, but he let his mind slip and Hamilton was there.

She sits up on her elbow, her hair falling forward over her shoulders and covering her breasts. “You were thinking of a man, weren’t you?” and she’s…disgusted? No. Surprised? Intrigued, even?

“It’s nothing,” Aaron says, because it is, it always has been, but then realizes he didn’t _deny_ it.

“I won’t judge,” she says, “I promise. I know lots of men who enjoy being with men.”

“I like women.” He turns to look at her. “Obviously.”

She gives him a small, condescending smile. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy a bit of cock too—”

“Jesus christ, no.” Aaron doesn’t want to think about _that,_ much less discuss it with a whore, she has no idea what she’s talking about, but now he’s thinking of Hamilton’s cock and the glimpses he’s seen of it, and oh no, what if she’s right…

“I want to be alone.” At least he has the right to send her away.

“Okay, okay.” She gets out of bed, starts picking her clothing off the floor. She talks as she dresses. “I’d let both of you with me at the same time. You and this _Alex—_ “

“Alexander,” Aaron corrects, because _Alex_ alone doesn’t belong to anyone else, and now he’s thinking of them together with a woman and…yes, that’s a thought. He’d like to see Hamilton with a woman, _again_.

She smiles, pleased at her astuteness. “It helps some men get comfortable together when there’s a woman involved. I could help get you warmed up and then I could leave while you two—”

“If I pay you extra, will you drop it?”

She agrees. She takes the money from Aaron’s jacket — she knows where to find it after many times together. When she’s fully clothed, she sits next to him on the bed where Aaron is lounging, naked.

“I assure you nobody else will know,” she says, softly. He believes her, for some reason — maybe because it doesn’t really matter because he can always deny it as it would be his word versus hers, the word of a gentleman versus a whore’s. Maybe it’s the sad expression she has that he has never seen her wear. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

And if people do find out how much of a reprehensible sinner he is, then — what? He gets a noose around his neck, followed by a comfortable grave? If that’s how it’s meant to be, then he won’t stop it from happening. Sometimes, that feels almost welcome, because then he wouldn’t be have to think of this or any of the other horrible things anymore, he wouldn’t have to think of _anything,_ and if hell is real, then he imagines it couldn’t be much worse than life, so what does he have to lose?

 _It could be worse_ , he thinks. He’s never understood how that’s perceived as optimism because he’s always thought of it as a rather pessimistic statement. It’s a reminder that things _could_ be worse, so you might as well accept the misery you have.

As though she could read his mind, Michelle takes his hands — they’re shaking, he hadn’t noticed, too damn worked up — and smiles. It feels forced, despite her best efforts.   Like she knows she’s about to tell a lie.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” she says, and she leans in and kisses his cheek. “We all have our secrets.”

She repeats, “It’ll be okay.”

He wishes people would stop telling him _it’ll be okay._

 

* * *

 

Aaron had thought that he’d want Hamilton less by removing himself from Hamilton — that if he wasn’t there, he couldn’t be _tempted_ by Hamilton. Taking him out of his life completely. Like smothering a flame to extinguish it, obliterating.

But Hamilton is a spark that stays lit within him, always burning.

 

* * *

 

One might say — could say — that Aaron has hit rock bottom, but he’s had so many rock bottoms that it’s become a recurrent pattern. Achieve, and then lose everything.

As always, he _waits_ until it’s clear what to do.

Until then, he lives without regard. He stays awake all night and dozes off right before daybreak. Gets shitfaced drunk with the blind old man. Spends too much money on whores, having the convenient one who lives in the inn and sampling whoever he fancies on the street. Gets blowjobs in alleys in broad daylight. Naps through the afternoon storms. Smokes until his voice is gravelly. Eats suppers that consist only of pastries from the bakery across the street and overpriced fruit. Has sex with any woman who will lay with him. Writes letters that he burns in the fire, sending them nowhere.

He always said that he was the one thing in life he can control — but he’s not sure if he can control himself, anymore.

It could be worse.

 

* * *

 

When he’s recovered from the embarrassment of his behavior with Bentham — which takes three weeks and two days — he goes back for a visit.

And, of course, Bentham isn’t home. He takes that as a sign and goes to leave, but Bentham’s housekeeper invites him in and won’t take _no_ for an answer. She receives him with kindness, providing him with pleasant conversation, which leads to coy glances, which leads to her bending over the sofa and hiking up her dress, which leads to him taking his dick out and rubbing it against her — it would be rude to refuse her — and when he goes inside her the tingling of his nerves quiets to a hum. This act of one body with another feels just as good, no matter who he’s with or how many times he’s done it, how many times he’s _fucked_ — he’s addicted to it.

He enjoys this midday treat, sweating in his clothes as he bangs her. He’s too focused on pleasure to pay much attention to the front door opening, but then there’s the sound of footsteps, and then a pause quickly followed by a chuckle. That he can’t ignore — he looks up and there’s Bentham, standing on the other end of the sofa.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again, but I didn’t know I’d be seeing this much of you,” Bentham says, and there’s a playful amusement to his voice. “I’m glad you made yourself comfortable.”

Under him, the housekeeper laughs. He wonders what kind of relationship Bentham and his housekeeper have for neither one of them to be ashamed at this situation.

“Please, don’t let me stop you,” Bentham says, and Aaron hadn’t any intention of stopping. Bentham seems to get the message — especially after Aaron grunts and speeds up — and he leaves the room, saying, “You better be the gentleman that I believe you to be and let my dear housekeeper finish, too.”

Aaron does, reaching down and touching that place that makes women crazy for it, and they complete nearly together, her clenching down on him and him cursing as he thrusts a few more times to reach his peak.

The deed complete, they pull apart. He arranges himself in his clothes and she fixes her hair that fell out of its tidy bun, leaving without another word to him. She curtseys to Bentham who was waiting by the door before hurrying away.

Aaron expects Bentham to tell him to leave because he’s outstayed his welcome, but he doesn’t; Bentham just shakes his head and laughs. Unsure what to do after he’s seen him like _that,_ Aaron awkwardly stands in the middle of the room, shifting on his feet. Bentham looks pained having to look at him, but he sighs and waves his hand at him, motioning for him to sit down. Aaron sits on the same sofa he just had sex against, watching as Bentham goes over and opens a window.

“If you don’t mind,” Bentham says, “since the room smells of sex. I get jealous when I was not a participant.”

That was a bit of an impulse, even for him, Aaron must admit.

“I apologize for my indiscretion. I did not intend to display myself in that manner. It is all my fault, don’t blame your housekeeper for my inability to—”

“Keep it in your pants?” Bentham collapses into the armchair next to him. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a supporter of fornication.”

Well, that’s wonderful to know. He continues to find that Bentham is a mutual spirit in many ways.

He clears his throat — there’s more he wanted to say—

“And I’m sorry for my behavior during my last visit,” he says. “I was horribly rude, discourteous to your hospitality, and it was ill-mannered to leave so suddenly without an explanation. I—”

“I forgive you.”

“…and I — what?”

“Seriously, my boy,” Bentham says, reaching forward and patting Aaron’s hand — Aaron hasn’t been called _boy_ in decades and it’s strangely affectionate coming from Bentham.

But true affection from anyone is a rarity these days, and Aaron doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until Bentham touched him and gave him a term of endearment. He turns his hand over, holding it there for a moment before letting it fall out of Bentham’s.

Bentham frowns.

“I know you’re hurting. But doesn’t an injured dog lash out sometimes, even when tamed?”

Yes. Of course. He is hurting, and Bentham sees right through him. Bentham has a poet’s soul, beautiful, just like—

“I’m fine,” Aaron says.

And Bentham is kind enough to not press even though it’s a transparent lie. Instead, he leans back in his chair, changes the mood.

“So, Aaron Burr, Sir,” he says, cheerful, and it’s not his fault that Aaron flinches like he’s been shot. He raises a brow, continues, “What have you been doing, besides sulking?”

For some reason, Aaron feels a _trust_ with him, so he’s honest — mostly — and tells him how he’s passed the time. His whoring, drunken, hedonistic lifestyle. Upon telling it, he’s nonchalant — _yes, I fucked a woman in the woods outside of town, and then I got lost wandering the streets on my way back, pissed against the wall of a tavern, and then I went inside and drank until they kicked me out_ — he’s _proud_ of himself for living like a heathen.

“You’re out of control,” Bentham says when Aaron’s story is done. Shaming him only in jest — grinning, sincere. He pours them each a generous serving of brandy, hands a glass to Aaron who downs it at once, and then holds it out for Bentham to pour him another.

“That’s normal for me,” Aaron says. He drinks, the liquor warming him and uprooting his nerves. “I’m _reckless._ ” Live like chaos when his life is chaos.

Bentham gives him a skeptical look. “Is that only because you make it so?”

Ah, the theory of making yourself miserable because you _want_ to be miserable. Aaron has heard it before — Theodosia during their courtship, his own daughter, and from Hamilton multiple times.

Avoiding, Aaron says, “I’ve been discourteous and spoken only of myself. Let me hear about you.”

Bentham rolls his eyes, knowing what Aaron’s doing, but he humors him anyway. “I’ve read the literature you lent me. I enjoyed it and I have a new appreciation for you Americans. Quite compelling.” A smile. “Especially your Hamilton’s essays.”

Aaron’s pulse quickens. “He is very talented.” He finishes his glass again — when did Bentham refill it? But his friend does again, and he drinks it down, a buzz headed towards a quick, full-on drunk.

“Obviously.” Bentham steeples his fingers together. “My favorite of his was Number seventy-eight. He convinced me on the merits of your judiciary system.”

Aaron recalls that particular essay, and in fact, he remembers Hamilton writing it. Hamilton had left a draft on Aaron’s desk and said it was an accident but really, he knew that Hamilton wanted him to read it and compliment him and tell him he was good, and goddamn it, Hamilton is _so_ good.

Bentham says, “He’s obviously brilliantly witty. He comes across as very likable, even in print while discussing drab politics.”

“He’s even better when unreserved,” Aaron says. Hamilton writes word-perfect, trying to impress, but when he’s emotional he loses that restraint and it’s beautiful and _real_ , how his words become _him,_ personified — loud, revealing so much of what he tries to hide away with his ability. Aaron doesn’t think Hamilton knows there’s a difference, but he’ll never tell, for the fear Hamilton would never show that side of himself anymore.

“But you have the honor of knowing him personally,” Bentham says, curious, and he keeps talking about Hamilton, “What is it that you like about him?”

Aaron licks his lips. There is so much to Hamilton. There are many things he doesn’t like, but there are so _so_ many things he likes. His brilliance, and how his forehead wrinkles when there is something he doesn’t understand — like he’s offended that something confounds him, his love for his family, the shape of his nose, _freckles_ , how he’s sure his hand would feel wonderful against his skin, the dark circles under his eyes that look like smeared ink that won’t wipe away, the taste of his pouty lips—

“A lot,” Aaron says.

Bentham nods, as if he understands Aaron’s drunken answer. But could he understand? Understand the complexity of what is wrought between him and Hamilton? And—

“So you’re lovers,” Bentham says, simple.

 _No,_ that’s not it at all. Aaron shakes his head, drinks the rest of what’s in the glass and he feels sick. He and Hamilton, _lovers—_

(If only.)

“What makes you conclude that?” Aaron asks. What was it that gave him away, that he’s — _that_ way. Strange. He wants to know so he can eradicate it from himself and reveal it again — but that would probably be impossible, he’s been trying to forget but it’s grown more and more—

“So you are,” Bentham says, pleased. Excited. “Was it before or after you shot him?”

“Bentham.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I always say make-up sex is the best—”

Aaron lets out an exasperated sigh. He should have stayed quiet.

“There’s no shame in being with a man,” Bentham says. “Love is love.”

“I don’t _love_ Alexander,” Aaron says, and it’s difficult to say _love_ and _Alexander_ in the same sentence. “Sometimes I don’t even know if I _like_ him.”

Bentham shrugs. “Whatever. You don’t have to be practically fond of each other to lay together. Really, there’s no need to be ashamed of buggery. I’ve done it a few times myself. Men are a fresh experience, aren’t they?”

Aaron is glad his complexion hides his blush because he’d appear aflame now, but his expression betrays him and tells everything.

“We aren’t like that,” Aaron says, and when Bentham tilts his head, he insists, “We _aren’t._ ”

“But there’s something.”

“It’s complicated,” Aaron says, and Bentham replies, “Isn’t it always?”

There’s that damnable compulsion to tell Bentham the truth, and Hamilton isn’t here — and then something breaks inside and he can’t stop.

“I wanted him, _god_ I wanted him, and he wanted me too,” Aaron says, and the words come easy because he’s drunk and hopeless and lost. “Hamilton — Alexander, he’s so infuriating. He’s awful, but he gets stuck in your head, like a line of prose or a beautiful melody, and then you can’t stop thinking of him. He’s brilliant and fascinating and…pretty.” He laughs. “He _is_ pretty! Very handsome. When he was younger he had to keep the ladies away with a stick. He’s still good-looking now, though. And he’s got a nice ass.”

“Uh huh.”

“He’s wonderful. I wish he were here.”

“Why isn’t he?” Bentham asks. “I thought you said you wanted each other.”

“Because,” Aaron says, “because I wanted something from him that he didn’t want in return.” Aaron frowns, remembering. “He talks all the fucking time but he wouldn’t talk about _us_ when it was important. He wouldn’t admit that it was something more. He couldn’t admit it because he wanted me to look like a fool, or he really doesn’t care or...” He makes a sweeping motion with his arm. “So I left him.”

Bentham moves, sits next to him and takes his hand and…it feels nice. _Bentham_ cares about him.

“But that didn’t solve anything, did it?” Bentham asks. “You’re still miserable, aren’t you?”

Aaron looks at him for a long moment before answering.

“I was sure of being able to kill him,” Aaron says, steady — like his aim at Weehawken. “I didn’t second guess myself. I thought if Hamilton died that day, I knew that I was confident in my actions. That my pride was more important than his — his _life_ because I thought he deserved it.”

But then he saw Hamilton hit and fall to the ground and he had been wrong, an error in judgment, blinded by spite and resentment, he didn’t want Hamilton to die…

“And now?”

“I could never harm him,” Aaron says, but he _has_ hurt Hamilton, again, hasn’t he? “He’ll never forgive me for leaving.”

“Never is a long time.”

Bentham looks sad — sympathetic. He’s sitting close to Aaron and he’s been receptive, listening, holding his hand. Comfort. Aaron tries to remember what it feels like to be truly wanted. He likes Bentham and he wants Bentham to like him too — he thinks Bentham is interested. Why else would he be acting this way after he’s told him he has the same _idiosyncrasy_? It could just be his drunkenness misreading the moment but it’s near enough for interest, so he tries to make a move — to prove to himself that it just isn’t Hamilton he could want — and he closes his eyes and leans in.

But when he’s a breath away, Bentham puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back, stopping him. Aaron opens his eyes to see Bentham looking even sadder.

“Why’d you stop me?” Aaron asks. What is so wrong with him—? He looks away, embarrassed, but Bentham catches his chin and makes him look at him. He takes Aaron’s face in his hands, brushing his cheeks with his thumbs.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Bentham says. “I refuse you only because it would hurt you more.”

“Would not,” Aaron murmurs, and it sounds petulant even to him. He doesn’t want to be here any longer, not when he’s been rejected, _again_ , but Bentham holds on to him, won’t let him go.

“You want this Hamilton, not me.”

“Alexander isn’t here,” Aaron says, and he’s a little mad — he knows what he wants and right now he wants _this_ — and he tries again for a kiss, but Bentham stops him. Pulls away and rests his hands on Aaron’s shoulders.

“I’m flattered, really,” Bentham says. “You are lovely and if things were different, then maybe…” His voice trails off. “You should be going. It’s getting late.”

Aaron looks to the window; the sun has gone down while they’ve been talking.

“Are you okay to go by yourself?” Bentham asks, concerned when Aaron sways when he stands. He grabs his arm, but Aaron shakes it away.

“I’m fine.” Aaron goes to check the time on his watch, then realizes he still hasn’t fucking set it. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Please come back,” Bentham says — and whether he means it or not, it doesn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

He was told as a child that he was horrible, a delinquent, and he supposes that’s true — so he might as well give in to his nature. To thine own self be true.

It’s not about Hamilton and it’s not about Bentham, and Aaron means to prove it. It could be anybody, any man—

He’s familiar with whoring. It didn’t take much time to discover all the local ones. After leaving Bentham’s, he goes to where he’s seen the young men with easy mouths hang out. He’d thought of this before, of being with a man to get it out of his system, but it never seemed urgent enough, but now…

One under the streetlight catches his eye — he’s young and amenable and yes, he will do just fine. _He not as pretty as Hamilton_ , he thinks, and then curses himself, because…because…just because.

The whore understands what Aaron wants, and he indicates with his head and leads him down an alley where they won’t be disturbed. It’s dark and there’s only the moonlight to guide them. The mechanics of a body against his are familiar — touch here, touch there — but he stalls when he realizes the last time he was pressed up against a man he fled the country because his goddamn feelings got hurt.

The whore must detect Aaron’s apprehension because he gently backs Aaron against the wall, and runs his hand down the front of his body, touching with purpose, and kisses him, and _oh,_ it’s nice, and he kisses him back and then he realizes he’s kissing a man (who isn’t Hamilton).

“Is this your first time with a man?” the whore asks, whispered against his lips, reaching down and _ah—_

“No,” Aaron says, because it’s not. This man who’s half his age isn’t the first man who’s had his mouth on his and he isn’t the first man to be rubbing him through his breeches. The whore laughs, disbelieving, but he does his duty — kissing Aaron hard, letting out a breathy moan that seems to be a whorish act no matter a man or woman. He rubs at Aaron’s cock which traitorously twitches with interest. Aaron tells himself that it’s only a physical response, not because it’s a man or because he’s thinking of someone else doing it—

 _Alex_ he admits to himself. He wants Hamilton to be doing this to him. He wishes it were Hamilton undoing the flap of his breeches and reaching in and oh god yes his warm hand around him, stroking him slow, thumb rubbing where it’s most sensitive—

The whore covers Aaron’s mouth with his free hand. “Be quiet, do you want us caught?”

“Don’t care,” Aaron says. Nothing matters because it’s not Hamilton touching him — he’s across the ocean and out of his life, and most likely hates him.

He can’t help but think of Hamilton. Everything reminds him of him, including the whore. One thing that he has in common with Hamilton is that he likes to complain. He sighs, obviously not enjoying Aaron, which makes Aaron decide that should stick to sticking it in women. They at least pretend to enjoy it.

The whore changes the angle of his hand, wincing at a cramping wrist from his efforts to bring him hard. Aaron is overcome with embarrassment and mutters, “This never happens,” but the guy laughs like he’s heard it before. Aaron is distracted, his dick focused on other things (namely, a raven-haired bastard immigrant).

“Would it help if I put my mouth on you?” the whore asks. Licks his lips like he’s ready for it.

“No,” Aaron says, and suddenly he doesn’t want this, and he pushes the whore away.

“Do I get paid?” he asks, annoyed.

“Did I get laid?” Aaron replies, but he gives him a coin anyway so he leaves without another word. He’s probably relieved he didn’t have to get on his knees on the grimy cobblestones for some old man who couldn’t get it up so he could do his job.

Aaron curses Hamilton because it’s his fault that he couldn’t get off, and then he curses himself, and then he curses Hamilton again, and oh, Alex…

Right there in the alleyway he takes himself in his hand, and he’s fully hard now at the thought of Hamilton and his curvy hips and his pretty mouth and his insatiable body — he strokes himself rough because he figures that Hamilton would do the same with him, unforgiving, _greedy._ He rests one hand against the wall to brace himself, he’s so so _so_ close, he shuts his eyes and thinks of the glimpses he’s seen of Hamilton: him wet in the bath, his morning wood curving up against his stomach, his bare legs free of stockings — and Aaron thinks of touching him, reaching into his breeches and wrapping his hand around his cock and touching as he's doing to himself.

Thinking of that, Aaron comes, gasping. He opens his eyes and sees his mess on the wall and, well, that’s not the worst thing this alley has witnessed.

He fixes himself up and goes back to his lonely room, lies in his empty bed. He gets to thinking of Hamilton again and he jerks off again, letting the fantasy drift…develop…imagining Hamilton dipping his head between his thighs and putting those lovely lips around his cock and…

 

* * *

 

He receives another letter from Theo. In it, there’s no mention of Hamilton. He prefers it that way.

He writes a reply to Theo. He writes _two_ versions of the letter, one in which he’s honest and says, _The only things I miss are you, of course, my cat, and that verbose immigrant bastard with the beautiful hair and captivating eyes and, oh Theo, I miss him dreadfully—_

He tears that letter into shreds and then burns it, leaving no trace of it. In the other letter, he doesn’t mention Hamilton at all.

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock at his door in the middle of the night.

Aaron is awake, reading. He doesn’t think much of it — it could be old man Robert “checking-in” on him with a bottle of whiskey, or it could be the woman from down the hall wanting a lay — and he puts his book aside and slips on his dressing gown as he goes to the door, opens it and…

…Hamilton is there, on the other side of it.

He must be dreaming, thinking of another time when Hamilton knocked on his door in the middle of the night, but then he blinks and realizes that _no_ , it is Hamilton — no dream could be this good. To be sure, he reaches out to touch Hamilton — and Hamilton is _real_ — holding a suitcase in one hand and his cane in the other, looking thinner and scruffier than the last time he saw him, but he’s here. With him.

“Aaron Burr,” Hamilton says, “I have been looking for you.”

He stands at the threshold, fidgety, like he’s unsure if Aaron is going to invite him in or punch him. He’s got seven different emotions on his face — excitement worry desire anger exhaustion curiosity and hope, please please please—

Aaron grabs him by the arm and drags him inside and locks the door — so neither of them can escape — and he still doesn’t understand how or why or if he even deserves this blessing. Why did Hamilton have to stir things up again when he was just learning that he’d have to accept that he’s changed him irrevocably? Why did Hamilton show his face when he was just starting to wish to forget it?

“Why are you here?” Aaron asks, stunned.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Hamilton sets his suitcase on the floor. “You’re a goddamned fool.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“You insensitive, cowardly, wishy-washy brute.”

“Did you travel across the ocean just to insult me?” Aaron asks. “Because you could have done so in a letter and saved yourself the trip.”

Hamilton is frustrated, visibly — chewing on his bottom lip and eyes flashing and that fervid need to _prove_ himself radiating from his core. He glows in the candlelight, devastatingly handsome, and — Aaron is ruined.

“Could you not be so captious, for once?” Hamilton asks, harsh. “I came here because…because you’re _wrong_ ,” Hamilton says, and that’s the most _Hamilton_ -like reason ever, to travel a great distance to tell someone that he thinks they’re wrong.

Aaron lightly laughs, still not believing it. Now that Hamilton has said his piece, will he leave before Aaron can reply? He goes to say that, that Hamilton always has to have the last word, but Hamilton takes a step closer. “You asked me why I wanted you, remember?”

Of course Aaron remembers. He asked Hamilton and the man who always has something to say fell silent.

But he’s talking now.

“You probably would have fled the country even if I said what you wanted to hear. I was furious when you left. I didn’t understand why you did, and I didn’t understand why it made me so angry that you left. But then as the days passed and you weren’t there and I missed you — and that made me furious too, that you left a mark on me — and then I realized that maybe I misjudged you again…and then it might be too late to fix it — _us_. I thought maybe we only had one time to mend the damage we caused each other and we wasted it on when we shot at each other instead of when we kissed each other.”

This is just like Hamilton — a million pages of conversation and no closer to the point. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Aaron says.

Hamilton looks away for a moment, like he’s considering leaving, but then he turns to Aaron and he doesn’t stop—

“You asked me _why_ and I hated you for asking because you gave it validity. No matter what I said you would’ve had a counteraction. I want you, Burr. But _why_ is intricate. There’s the attraction between us — yes, _that_ — but you’re right, there is something else.” Hamilton blinks, his eyes watering — why must he be so emotional? “Tell me I’m wrong, Burr,” Hamilton says. Pleads. “Is it too late?”

Finally, it’s said. But of course, Hamilton isn’t finished, his speech becoming more and more frantic. “You act as though you’re the only one who could be hurt. You kept grousing about _your_ feelings, but you didn’t consider mine. You didn’t think that I was worried you were trying to outsmart me because you saw this as another challenge between us, or that you’d quit me the first time I disappointed you. And I was right! You did leave!”

“Alexander—”

“You make me fucking crazy and maybe that’s why I want you. I can’t specifically say why — it’s more like why _don’t_ I want you. You’re too important to me to be reduced a list of reasons of why I like you,” he says, and something in Aaron’s chest flutters at _I like you_. The elation must show on his face because Hamilton smiles, and continues, “All I know is that I care about you. I am very fond of you, Burr. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Aaron says, nodding, because he does know — something that’s reserved for Hamilton, alone.

“How could I say I didn’t need you? I didn’t mean it, but you hurt me and I wanted to hurt you back. It scares me to want you because when I care about people they…. I was going to apologize but you had already gone and—”

“Alexander.”

“—I didn’t know what to do, I would’ve done anything to talk to you and kiss you, I didn’t care which came first—”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

Hamilton doesn’t answer with words — he leans in and Aaron meets him halfway, their lips meeting. There are few things as wonderful as kissing Hamilton, and for the first time in a long while, things are in balance. Hamilton kisses him back, pulling back for a moment as though he’s checking if Aaron hasn’t changed his mind, then kissing him rougher, open-mouthed and panting, desperate. Aaron holds Hamilton’s face in his hands, and oh, he likes him so much, his dear, wonderful Alex—

“Alex,” he breathes against Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton’s cane thuds to the floor, his hands going to Aaron’s hips to pull him close, kissing at Aaron’s collarbone where his gown has fallen open and then slides his hands inside — they’re both touch-starved, wanting, and Aaron doesn’t know if he could stop—

Aaron backs Hamilton against the wall, tugs at his cravat and the white bow spilling at his neck, then dives down and kisses that newly-exposed skin. Hamilton tastes of saltwater and persuasion and the tail of a comet — he wants to kiss every inch of his skin. Days-old stubble scratch at Aaron’s lips as he drags across Hamilton’s neck, and Hamilton lets out a sound like he’s injured — loud, shuddering — but no, that’s the sound of a man enraptured. He’s needy, pulling at the tie of Aaron’s gown, his eyes black as he takes it off, flashing him a look that is nothing innocent at all. He holds the hem of Aaron’s nightshirt, questioning, and if Aaron didn’t know better he’d think Hamilton is _shy_.

He takes his shirt off himself, and how Hamilton looks at him makes him hot all over, it makes him ache — Hamilton runs his hands down Aaron’s sides, looking at his cock, and that’s unfair, Aaron wants to look at him, too. He kisses Hamilton’s neck as his hands work at unfastening his coat and slipping it off his shoulders, then his waistcoat, both of them falling onto the floor. He stops kissing Hamilton long enough to pull his shirt over his head, and then his mouth is on him again, kissing his chest, and Hamilton has freckles there too, and Aaron kisses each one. Hamilton moans, presses against Aaron, _so needy_ , and it inspires Aaron to be greedy, too — he pushes Hamilton’s breeches down his hips, revealing fine curves and his growing hardness, wanting, always wanting. He toes off his shoes so he can step out of his breeches and then he’s left bare except for his stockings. Aaron pauses at them, remembering before when he stripped Hamilton down in his bed, but Hamilton is whining, _needy_ , so he kneels down and has the honor of removing Hamilton’s stockings again — but this time quicker, eager, and stands and presses his body against his.

“Please,” Hamilton says, gasping, “please—”

And for the first time in Aaron’s life, he doesn’t want to be contrary to Hamilton, but that’s only because he wants the same thing — and Hamilton is making all these wonderful noises and his hand travels down — but he has to ask anyway—

“What of Eliza?” Aaron asks, because he doesn’t want anything to be cause for problem, no matter what was said before, but Hamilton just groans and kisses him silent.

“She told me to tell you that you should behave and be good to me,” he says. “Are you going to be good to me?” He kisses a trail down Aaron’s neck, then back up again. “Please,” he asks again — why won’t he stop talking? But Aaron guesses that Hamilton is tired of waiting because he brushes his hand against Aaron’s cock and—

“Shut up,” Aaron says, and he takes Hamilton and pushes him onto the bed. Hamilton laughs, and Aaron has only a moment to admire the sight of him nude in his bed before he reaches and drags him down next to him, half on top of him they won’t fall off. They fit together close, limbs tangled and skin pressed against skin — they touch each other — not where they desire it most, not yet — just touching in quiet intimacy, because they can. Aaron tucks Hamilton’s hair behind his ear. Hamilton traces the line of the muscles in Aaron’s arm. Aaron squeezes the flesh of Hamilton’s hip. Hamilton curls his hand at the nape of Aaron’s neck, nuzzles his nose against his. Touch-starved.

“Are you really here?” It’s barely a whisper against Hamilton’s neck, like Aaron is afraid that if he questions it, Hamilton will disappear.

“Yes,” Hamilton says, holding on to him — as though he fears to lose him, too — and he kisses Aaron, and everything’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes!**  
>  \- Burr did tell Theo all about his sexual conquests.  
> \- When Burr was a child he did try to run away on a ship. His uncle caught up to him and promised him he wouldn't beat him. I highly doubt he didn't get beat after.  
> \- Sally Burr married Tapping Reeve, who tutored her and Aaron. She died in 1797.  
> \- Burr and Bentham were really good friends during the time Burr was in Europe! Burr even stayed at his place for weeks at a time.  
> \- From Burr's journal, he wrote that Bentham's housekeeper gave him "very kind reception." I read between the lines and guessed that he banged her.  
> \- [Burr did give Bentham a copy of The Federalist as well as telling Bentham that he was sure of being able to kill him](http://www.artdiamondblog.com/archives/2015/05/p_source_cherno_16.html). Also that Burr did intend to be Emperor of Mexico.  
> \- Bentham was for decriminizing sodomy - homosexual acts. [He wrote a very long essay about it](http://www.columbia.edu/cu/lweb/eresources/exhibitions/sw25/bentham/#01). A quote from it: "... if all men were left perfectly free to choose [to have sex with men or women], as many men would make choice of their own sex as of the opposite one, I see not what reason there would be for applying the word natural to the one rather than to the other." Like!!! This shit is great for the time it was written.  
> \- "are you going to be good to me?" I didn't intend to think of the song Good For You, but if you think of it...that's cool.


	17. Alexander VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in America...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Many thanks to C and J for looking over parts of this for me.

In New York, Alexander is alone.

He doesn’t realize it for a while, distracted by the continuing ongoing of his life. Work, family, social obligations. He’s always been good at staying busy and getting things done. His life doesn’t stop for insignificant matters. He does great at work, writes long letters to Angelica where he doesn’t complain at all, loves his wife. He’s doing just fine.

He wants the comfort of something familiar, so he spends time with his children — more than he usually does. It shows that they aren’t used to it, as they’re not quite sure what to do with him. They’re kind to him, not wanting to crush his spirits by telling him they don’t want him around, but it’s forced. William and Lizzie tell him that he’s playing their imaginary game incorrectly, John and James sulk while he helps them with their studies, and Phil asks if he’s being punished when Alexander says he’s spending the day with him.

The older kids aren’t any better. He takes Al out to lunch with some of the best lawyers in town with the purpose to brag on him, saying, “My boy studies law, too. He’s the best in his class. Brilliant, like this father,” but Al looks pained throughout the meal. Al hardly says anything at all, and he’s quiet on the ride back too, except for, “I’m glad you finally found the time to show me off.” Alexander doesn’t catch the disingenuousness of it until hours later, and he wonders when his good-natured son became so spiteful.

Angie, however, doesn’t even try to hide her annoyance when he flops on the couch next to her and Theo. She sighs when he tries to make conversation, but it takes Theo glaring at him for him to realize that he was interrupting their private time that he isn’t supposed to know about. He quickly leaves, apologizing.

So he takes up with the only child who can’t tell him _no_. Rita rests against his chest making soft baby sounds as he tells her how mean her siblings are to their dear father, and—

“…you’re all growing up so fast and I don’t want to miss anything, and yes, I am not always the best father, but I try. My father wasn’t around, so I’m still not always sure what I’m doing, but I love you all and…”

He doesn’t hold it against her when she falls asleep.

Feeling neglected, he goes to Eliza and follows her around like a lost puppy dog. She seems to like the overabundance of his company and having him near _._ He sits next to her while she knits, looks over her shoulder as she writes to Angelica, goes with her to the market — but then she quickly grows tired of having him underfoot and it’s all he can do to keep from begging for her to pay attention to him. She draws the line when he makes a mess in the kitchen when he tries to help with the cooking.

“Why don’t you find something else to do, sweetheart,” Eliza suggests gently. She brushes powdered sugar off his shoulder; it’s dusted both of them all over, thanks to Alexander spilling it. “Read the new books you bought? Or write? Surely Jefferson has done something terrible and you can comment on it.”

Alexander takes her hand in his, licks the sugar off each of her fingers. “Alexander,” she says, half scolding and half charmed, but then he kisses her and lets her be, because he takes the hint that she wants to be left alone.

He locks himself in his office, but he doesn’t focus on politics. He doesn’t focus on anything. He paces the floor, his mind unsettled like a storm cloud rolling in over the horizon. On and on.

 

* * *

 

At night he fucks Eliza enthusiastically, having bed frame shaking sex where he has to kiss her to quiet her shouts, and it would be really marvelous if he weren’t so distracted, if he could stop thinking about that goddamn Aaron Burr—

Not that he’s thinking about Aaron Burr.

He doesn’t think about Burr at all, really. Certainly not in the morning, when they used to swap sections of the newspaper and bicker about the contents. He doesn’t think about him in the afternoon, when they’d take a break from work and walk around the block. He doesn’t think of him during the night, when he wakes up from dreams he can’t remember, but he’s shivering and overcome with the feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake—

“This is your fault,” Theo says when Alexander tells her of his troubles.

“It’s not,” Alexander says, but there is something wrong — he is alone, and restless.

He doesn’t want to admit that it’s because of Aaron Burr except that it totally _is_ Aaron Burr’s fault. Burr fucking _left_ because he’s a sanctimonious asshole who was too cowardly to…what? Face Alexander after he admitted that he wanted him? To admit he wanted to touch his dick? To wait for him to respond?

 _Why do you want me?_ Burr had asked, and Alexander had said nothing.

He should have said something.

It was just…so unprecedented for Burr to be upfront like that. It was almost like when Burr impresses in court — he is succinct with such an elegancy that Alexander is left bereft of speech and swearing in envy. He doesn’t have to dazzle people with panache and long speeches to make people _listen_ because he has that endearing quality that can’t quite be named — something that’s convincing. It’s what almost won Burr the election without any basis at all, and it’s something that Alexander hates hates _hates_ because he’s had to work tirelessly hard for what he has when it comes naturally to Burr.

He suspects Burr thinks the same of him.

Alexander had misjudged Burr. Again. Who knew that the cold-hearted guy could be so sensitive?

But then he remembers that Burr shot him over something that he may or may not have said, and well — yes, he should have known.

It _is_ Burr’s fault. He didn’t know what Burr wanted from him, but Burr made the choice for him.

And so it goes.

Alexander moves on. He works long hours, doing both his and Burr’s work and some additional work too. He comes home just in time for dinner and then stays up late. A few weeks pass and he settles into a routine. He can get used to any change. Another week passes, and it’s like it was before, when Burr wasn’t involved. Before he knew that he could miss him.

He glances over to Burr’s desk. It’s untouched from how Burr left it, disturbed only by Alexander to take documents for ongoing cases. He’s avoided looking in that direction — his side aches when he does, he can’t imagine why — but he knows it’s there, like a looming shadow in his peripheral vision. But because he hasn’t examined it closely, he hasn’t noticed the candle wax melted on the table, the quill he had been looking for, and — oh.

The flower is dying. _Their_ flower, the one Van Ness had given them as a gift when they won their first trial as business partners. It’s wilting, the greenery brown, its violet petals littering the surface of the desk like they’re passengers on a ship jumping overboard in futile hope of survival.

Burr had meticulously tended to it through the seasons, pruning the leaves and making sure it got enough but not too much sun. Alexander would roll his eyes and say that’s a lot of maintenance for a flower but Burr simply replied _I have experience dealing with high-maintenance things_ , and he must, because soon the flower was overgrown with vivid purple blooms and flourishing beautifully on his desk.   Thriving. Burr was proud of it, but Alexander didn’t think it could be that difficult, but he forgot to water it and he hasn’t put it by the window at all, and…

He thinks to let it die, out of spite, but it isn’t the flower’s fault Burr left it to suffer. He decides it’s okay to do this one thing, and he pushes his chair back and goes to the sad flower. Burr will hate him for this too if he lets it die, and he already hates him too much.

Alexander pours all of his drinking water into the soil, cursing Burr and this stupid flower — they should have took it home and planted it outside when they got it — and then carries it to the window and sets it on the ledge. He drags his chair over and sits, glaring at the flower like he’ll be able to see a difference already.

He slumps in the chair and sighs. He doesn’t have the patience for this.

Perhaps he should sing to it. He’s heard Angie sing to her flowers, and they always grow to be beautiful, decorating the garden. He often goes there with her, compliments her, but then it’s too quiet and — what else is there to say?

A few minutes into a humming a tune, the door opens. He hadn’t been expecting any clients and nobody comes this late in the day unless they’re truly in trouble, but looking up, he sees that it’s just Van Ness.

He doesn’t know why Burr’s friend continues to hang around even after Burr left. Van Ness is half his age, mildly annoying, and the only thing they have in common is that they like to rib at Burr. And yet, he visits every few days. Alexander wonders if Burr told him to spy on him.

“Van Ness! Just who I wanted to see,” Alexander says, because at the moment, anyone will do. Van Ness raises his brow but slowly walks over to the window where he’s sitting.

“I’m sorry to bother you. It looks like you were hard at work,” Van Ness says. His mouth flickers into a grin, amused at his own joke.

Alexander gestures to the flower, as if it were obvious what he’s doing. “I am caring for the flower that you bestowed upon this establishment.”

Van Ness glances to the violet and grimaces. “It doesn’t look like it’s doing too well.”

“Ah, yes. I might have killed it,” Alexander says, and he meant it to have the same off-beat humor of the conversation, but his voice cracks, and then he’s telling Van Ness how he didn’t _mean_ to kill it but he had forgot about it because he was trying to forget everything that involves Burr, and now it’s _dead_ like their relationship, and he’s watered it and gave it light and even sang to it but it’s too late, it’s always too late—

Alexander looks away, eyes stinging and face warm with shame. It always seems to be the little things that break emotional composure. Like rain at the end of a bad day. Or a library book found when its owner died unexpectedly and will never have the chance to finish reading it.

It’s fine that Burr left him — he knew they could never have what they desired, and what they had was too good to last — and he went on with his life, he’s working and getting shit done, he doesn’t need Burr — he can _fix_ things — but how can he if things keep going wrong?

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. The back of his hand comes away damp. If Van Ness sees, he’s a good man and doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

“I came to get a book I lent to Burr,” Van Ness says, “but I was wondering…how would you like to go get a drink?”

It actually sounds really fantastic.

“What about the flower?” Alexander asks.

“I think it’s had enough to drink,” Van Ness says, and Alexander glances down to see the soil is a bit waterlogged.

He makes a sound of agreement, and Van Ness places the flower back on Burr’s desk and then leads him to the tavern down the street. Alexander claims the table in the corner, and when Van Ness comes a couple minutes later with two pints of beer he wistfully tells him, “This is where Burr and I usually sit.”

“Oh dear.” Van Ness sighs and drinks heavily from his glass.

Alexander does the same.

After their first beer, they have another, and Alexander’s reservation with Van Ness disappears. It’s a little awkward when he thinks that Van Ness isn’t much older than his children, but he’s smart, witty, and is a good listener. He can see why Burr likes him.

“I _sang_ to it, and it still wouldn’t perk up.”

“It probably wanted to die to escape your singing,” Van Ness says, amused. Alexander glares at him, but he laughs and continues, “Plants are sensitive. You can’t apply what you’ve always done in the hopes that is what they need to be well.”

“…this is a metaphor, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Hamilton. Now finish your beer.”

Alexander frowns. “I do the best I can. I am a _fixer._ ”

“Control-freak.”

Alexander ignores him. “I am fine on my own, I don’t need Burr—”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Alexander is embarrassed that he would even think that possibility, that he needs Burr.

“Why didn’t you stop him from leaving?” Alexander asks, pitifully, another beer into their conversation. “He listens to you. Kind of.”

Van Ness scoffs.

“Have you ever tried to make Burr do anything? He’s the most stubborn man alive.” Van Ness takes a drink, as though the thought exhausts him. He swallows, and then narrows his eyes at Alexander. “But you should know.”

“Why?”

“Because you two are a lot alike.”

“We are _nothing_ alike.”

Van Ness laughs. When Alexander raises his brow at him, he says, “That’s what Burr would say.”

* * *

Theo receives a slightly rumpled letter from overseas. Alexander knows it must be from Burr — who else? It gets passed down the breakfast table to Theo, and Alexander watches as she carefully opens it with trembling hands. He has the urge to reach across the table and snatch it from her but he forgot that he isn’t supposed to care.

She scans the letter, and then clutches her chest and lets out a sigh of relief.

“My father safely arrived in London,” Theo says, looking up from the page, smiling. “He’s okay.”

Eliza says _thank God_ under her breath, and Alexander thinks it, too. He didn’t realize he had been worried about Burr’s safety, until now. Even after all these years, voyages across the ocean still make him nervy — the ocean is dangerous, and unforgiving.

Theo reads excerpts aloud over breakfast — Burr complains about the weather, says he enjoys having time _alone_ , and wishes everyone well — but most of the letter she keeps to herself, reading silently.

Alexander tries not to seem interested. However, he doesn’t miss when Theo’s smile downturns, or when she reaches for Angie’s hand under the table.

 

* * *

 

“Alexander, please pay attention.”

He opens his eyes and looks down to where Eliza is between his legs, slowly stroking his dick. He meets her dark, sensual expression and…she looks a bit annoyed, too. That can’t be good for him.

“Why’d you stop?” Alexander asks. Eliza smiles, and he _knows_ that smile, when his sweet, dear wife can become savage.

“You aren’t being present.” She grips him harder, and he arches his back and whines, begging, _please Betsy please_. She lowers her head down, taking him in her mouth for only a moment before pulling off. “You’re thinking of something — someone else?”

She’s right. His thoughts were off, thinking if Burr would like sucking cock, which led him to wonder if Burr would like sucking his. Burr would be inexperienced — he’d gag on it, but he would keep at it because he wouldn’t want to seem inadequate. Burr is a quick study, and he’d become an expert and take Alexander apart and leave him wanting more. Burr would probably string it out, edging Alexander until he’s crying for release, and then finally _finally_ he’d bring him off — with his hand, so he could talk to him as he comes — and then he’d wordlessly shove at Alexander to reciprocate, which he’d do willingly. Alexander’s mouth waters because he wants to taste him so badly. It’d be wonderful, because from what Alexander has heard, Burr is a good lover, and that adds to the fantasy…

“We’ve talked about this,” Eliza says. She’s still got her hand on him. “You can think about him as long as you’re honest about it.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He feels the cool breath of her laugh on him. He knows he isn’t fooling anyone.

She doesn’t respond and Alexander hopes she won’t. She goes down on him, and he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander — not thinking of Burr, he doesn’t like him, he can’t like him—

“It’s okay to be upset,” Eliza says. She rests her chin on his thigh. “It’s okay to miss him.”

“I don’t,” he says, rough, pulling her up to him and kissing her hard, needy. He turns her onto her back, and when he spreads her legs so he can push into her, he can only think of her.

 

* * *

 

Eliza peacefully slumbers while Alexander lays awake. He wishes he could join her because he’s very tired, but his mind is too cluttered — there’s correspondence to send, he needs to pick up his new suit from the tailor, their budget needs to be balanced, and he forgot to water the flower again, and—

A noise in the night interrupts his thoughts.

At first, he thinks it’s one of the kids but he hears it again, a quiet _scratch scratch,_ and realizes they wouldn’t be so obvious if they were awake at his hour.

He recalls the scary stories his brother used to tell him when he would stay awake reading. _The monster is going to get you if you don’t put out the light and go to sleep,_ he’d say, but Alexander knew Jim was making it up, he was smarter than that, but he would put out the candle and scoot close to his brother, just in case.

There are no such thing as monsters, and even if they were, Nevis is far away, and his brother, gone.

He shuts his eyes. It’s as dark as when they were open.

_Scratch._

Sleep isn’t going to happen anytime soon, so he decides to investigate. He gets out of bed — Eliza doesn’t stir, she’s used to him often leaving their bed at all hours of the night — and steps into his slippers. He picks up the candle at his bedside, lights it, and walks without his cane, trying to be as light-footed as possible. He holds up the candle to illuminate the hallway.

It’s empty. There’s no kid up past their bedtime, or scary monsters looming in the darkness — just a small furry angry monster sitting in front of Burr’s bedroom door.

Cleo the cat turns to Alexander. Her left ear twitches, and she meows at him.

“What?” Alexander asks the cat.

She turns away and goes back to scratching at Burr’s door. _Scratch scratch scratch._ Alexander blames Burr for encouraging this destructive personality.

“Hey, stop that.” Alexander steps closer. “He’s gone. He left you. He doesn’t care.”

She lets out a sad-sounding meow, crying, wanting to be let inside the room. When the door doesn’t open, she looks up at Alexander with her wide green eyes, as though she’s asking for his help.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander says. He can’t believe he’s having a conversation with a cat. He blames his fatigue.

Cleo hasn’t run off like she usually does when Alex is around. Instead, she meows again, and curls around his feet, intertwining between his legs.

To hell with it.

He grunts as he bends over but Cleo willingly allows him to scoop her up in his open arm. She nuzzles against him, resting against his neck, whiskers tickling, and her deep purrs resonate against his chest. For some strange reason he’s compelled to pet her.

“It’s okay. Alexander is here,” he mumbles sleepily into her fur as he walks back to the bedroom. “Aaron Burr is a horrible man to have gone off and left you like this.”

She meows, flicking her tail.

“Yes, he left me too.” He yawns. “You can be my cat now. I’ll name you _Aaron Purr_.”

She meows again, and noses against Alexander’s face. It’s like she knows the sorrow that he isn’t even sure of himself.

Alexander pauses at the bedroom door, and holds her tighter.

“I miss him, too,” he confesses. “I could hate him for making me like him but I’d never give up liking him, and I could hate him for leaving me but I can’t think that either, not when it’s probably my fault. I miss him so much I can barely stand it. What am I going to do?”

The emotions spill out of him easily, telling them to someone who could not repeat them, nor think less of him. He sniffles into her soft fur, and even though he’ll be sneezing tomorrow it’s worth it because her purrs are comforting.

Alexander carries her to bed. He puts out the candle flame and lies down close to Eliza. She sighs softly in her sleep — she doesn’t even know he was gone. Cleo curls up next to him on his other side, purring contentedly.

For a moment, Alexander thinks of Burr lying with him. He thinks of the nights they shared a bed, and how they started out on opposite sides but during the night they would find each other, ending up with their bodies close together. He thinks how marvelous and _right_ that felt and how good Burr smells, but most of all, he thinks of the comfort of Burr being there with him.

Alexander is lulled to sleep by Cleo’s purrs and the memory of another body against his.

 

* * *

 

The condition of the flower doesn’t improve, so he brings it home for Angie to tend to, and hopefully restore with her talent for horticulture. It’s the last chance for survival before he gives up on it entirely.

Angie is delighted when he asks for her help. He gladly relinquishes the flowerpot over to her; she takes it out of his hands and carries it out to the front porch, where she sits with it on a bench. She hardly notices when Alexander and Theo sit across from her on the swing because she’s too busy fussing at the flower and delicately touching its wilted leaves with her fingertips. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, bites her lip — her concentration visualizing in a way reminiscent of Alexander’s, there’s no denying she’s his daughter. She starts singing a melody under her breath and rearranges the leaves, clipping away ones she deems too far gone. With each leaf she removes, instead of crumbling it in her palm, she holds it out and lets it be picked up by the breeze, and then watches it fly away, free.

She is radiant, outshining the morning sun.

Alexander glances sidelong to Theo, because she expressed a certain _feeling_ about Angie and, yes. The only thing that rivals Angie’s brightness is the way Theo is looking at her — of someone totally and utterly in love.

He remembers that feeling, when love is young and new and any little thing the other did is breath taking. He remembers being amazed about every discovery of Eliza. That she was insanely clever once he listened to her. How she blushes, even to this day, when he kisses her in public. The birthmark shaped like a cloud on her right breast. The sound she makes when she’s kissed awake. Her love for strawberry jam. How her kindness shines within all of their children. How she makes him a better person.

They say you are asleep until you fall in love; Eliza woke him up from his life and saved him, over and over.

Theo catches him staring. She scowls in that way that’s too similar to her father, anger hiding embarrassment — Burrs can’t stand to be caught with their emotions out in the open. Alexander lightly laughs and bumps his shoulder against hers, like _ease up_ , but she crosses her arms in a huff.

Angie hears, and looks up at them questioningly.

He can _feel_ Theo telling him: _don’t say anything._ He doesn’t want to anger the younger Burr.

“It looks better already,” Alexander says. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”

Theo relaxes next to him, reassured that he isn’t going to embarrass her.

Angie makes a sound of disapproval, and mutters, “What did you do to it, Pops?”

“I forgot to take care of it,” Alexander says. “Too bad it can’t tell me when to feed it, like you children do.”

Theo laughs. “You’re a disaster,” she says, and Angie looks between them, alarmed — as though she’s waiting for another disaster — but Alexander joins in on the laughter.

“I suppose I am.”

Angie smiles and goes back to fixing the flower. Alexander treasures these moments when she’s happy. She’s had so few good times in recent years, and things have been so terrible that she had to make a reality where Philip didn’t…

He wishes he knew how to fix her, but he can’t, because he can’t fix himself.

“I’m glad you two are getting along better,” Angie says. She lets a petal float away on the wind. “You can’t blame Theo for what her father does. She’s wonderful, and I greatly enjoy her company.”

Alexander and Theo share a secret glance, but Theo is blushing high in her cheeks and can hardly look at him because he knows what Angie means by _company_.

“Of course,” Alexander says, and they all sit in uncomfortable silence, and he’s content with that, the quiet. But Theo is jittery, disrupting, and Angie asks her what’s wrong — and Alexander wishes he were elsewhere.

“I told your father about us,” Theo says, and then she gasps and covers her mouth.

To be honest, Alexander is relieved, since he thought he would be the one to accidently tell the secret and ruin everything. However, it’s more awkward than he could have imagined. Theo is obviously embarrassed, stuttering as she tries to cover it up, and Angie looks lost.

“I didn’t mean to,” Theo says, “but we were talking and he was bothering me about Al and I said that it was you that I was with—”

“I can’t believe you did that,” Angie says, sharp. “It was supposed to be between us.”

“I know, dearest, but—”

“There is no excuse! How can I trust you now?”

“You can, Angie. Please listen—”

“Hey,” Alexander says, intervening, because he fears he’s seeing their relationship unravel, “it’s okay.” He reaches out and takes Angie’s hand in his, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. They’re speckled with dirt from the flower. She turns her head away from him.

“I have to admit I was shocked at first, but I think it’s wonderful.” He smiles “I’m glad I know.”

 _Because you’re like me,_ he thinks. She’s brazen and passionate, she’s always spoken her mind even if it gets her into trouble, and her heart doesn’t follow who she _should_ like.

Angie jerks her hand away from his, and turns to Theo. “Can you not keep any secret? I suppose you thought it was fair play to tell our secret since you told me the one about our fathers, that they _lust_ for each other.”

“You told her _what_?” Alexander can’t help his voice rising because he can’t handle how Angie looks at him — betrayed, hurt — and it seems to make Angie even more upset, tears running down her cheeks.

Theo appears to be nearly crying as well. “I am so sorry,” she says, “I just — I thought it would help, if she knew that you—”

“It doesn’t matter because we can never truly be together!” Angie cries, sobbing, and she runs into the house.

Theo looks to Alexander for only a second, but it’s long enough to know that she thinks it’s all his fault for ruining everything.

“You better mend my daughter’s broken heart,” he says. If she were a boy, he’s be threatening with his shotgun.

Theo nods, lip quivering, and follows Angie.

Alexander is left alone with the flower.

 

* * *

 

“The girls are fighting,” Eliza says. She looks over her shoulder to Alexander. “Do you know why?”

“You’re messing me up,” Alexander grumbles, and taps Eliza’s shoulder so she faces forward again. He’s braiding her long hair into her usual nighttime plait she wears so her hair doesn’t get too tangled. It’s something he’s done for her since she taught him how one rainy afternoon early in their marriage when Philip was only a baby and they had nothing else to do, already too worn out from sex. It’s an easy sort of intimacy that he enjoys.

“You’re avoiding my question,” Eliza says, and Alexander can _hear_ her smiling.

Alexander kisses her neck. “All done,” he says, and he lies down and pulls the duvet to his chest, hoping that will deter her from asking further questions. Eliza gives him a dubious look, but she leaves the candle lit and lies next to him, settling on her side with her arm thrown over his waist.

A moment of quiet, and then—

“You _know_ something,” she says, accusing.

She knows him too well.

“They’ve had a disagreement,” Alexander explains. Angie and Theo had dried their tears and moved on to shooting each other malicious looks during dinner, making everyone else uncomfortable. He supposes that Angie got Al on her side, because he was uncharacteristically cold to Theo as well. Theo sat quietly and was visibly upset, and ended up excusing herself from the table halfway through the meal. Alexander almost feels bad for her, if she hadn’t brought it upon herself.

“What?” Eliza asks, unsatisfied with Alexander’s vagueness. Alexander hem-haws, giving noncommittal sounds because he’s determined to keep secrets better than _some_ people, but Eliza hits his chest. “Alexander Hamilton, tell me right _now_ what’s going on.”

He _could_ use her outlook…

“Angie and Theo,” Alexander begins, choosing his words very carefully, quietly, so only Eliza can hear, “are involved. As partners.   Romantically.” He isn’t really sure what he’s saying and he’s hoping Eliza will interject but alas, she does not. He takes his gaze away from the ceiling to her, his hair rustling against the pillow. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Oh, I understand.” Eliza makes a _clicking_ sound with her tongue. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“That it’s wonderful? They’re both happy. Well, not at the moment, but that’s because Angie found out that Theo told me about them — that’s a whole other story — but they’re good for each other. You’ve seen how well they get along, and Theo told me that she _loves_ Angie.”

Alexander couldn’t be more elated, but Eliza is frowning.

“You’re upset,” he says.

“You shouldn’t encourage it,” Eliza says. “You know it won’t last. They may not even make up this time, which…that’s okay.”

Alexander is frowning, now. “Why would you say that? It’s what they want. We should let them be happy. It’s the happiest Angie has been, since…” _Since Philip died,_ unspoken.

“That’s _why_ we shouldn’t allow it,” Eliza says, harsh in his ear, as though she’s struggling to keep the argument quiet. “She shouldn’t be given false hope.”

“It isn’t. Relations with…the same are possible.” He pats his chest. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He’s proud, in a way, that his daughter is like him.

Eliza scoffs. “Obviously.”

What is that supposed to mean? “I suppose you blame me for that? For what I like?” he asks. It’s something they’ve spoken of in their marriage — Eliza knows that he can find a man just as attractive as a woman, if he looked — but it’s never been a problem.

“It’s different,” Eliza settles on, feebly.

“How so?”

Eliza sighs. “Because eventually Theo will want something else, and she’ll meet a man and go off and get married and leave Angie alone with nothing except a broken heart.” She blinks away tears. “That’s false hope.”

“You don’t know that,” he says. “They might stay together forever.”

“They can’t. It’s not — it’s not right to live that way.”

She doesn’t mean what it sounds like, he tells himself. He breathes through a flare of anger. Eliza doesn’t hate him for who he is. It’s security and safety she’s thinking of, but it feels like an insult.

“But you’re okay with my, uh, inclinations,” he says. “It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not. You’re married to a woman and you…” Eliza sighs. “You like women. Men are just…a weakness for you.”

“Is it a weakness to have affection for another?” How could that bubbly feeling when you like someone be bad? When you feel simultaneously ravenous and bursting at the seams, that can’t-get-them-off-your-mind obsession with everything they do, feeling hot all over and nerves tingling and mouth dry when you look upon their beauty — it’d feel like a madness if it didn’t feel so good. Is it a weakness to love—?

“Please, let them be happy.” Alexander kisses her, but she remains closed-mouthed. “They need this.”

“And you need what you desire to be happy, too?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Damn those Burrs.”

“I _love_ you. You and me — that would be enough, remember?”

Eliza loved him first, and has never stopped loving him. She loves him not despite his imperfections, but because of them. She understands him in a way that nobody else has, or ever will.

“I know,” Eliza says. “But you aren’t happy.”

“When did this become about me?”

“Don’t you want everything to be about you?”

“ _Eliza_.”

“But it is, isn’t it? You want things your way, but not everything is an absolute,” Eliza says. “You act as though someone must be entirely devoted to you, and since Aaron Burr doesn’t worship the ground you walk on and is apprehensive to jump into bed with you, you’d rather not commit to him, either.”

“That’s not why.”

Eliza laughs in the dismissive way she does when she think he’s said something absurd. “It _is_. He asked how you felt about him after he revealed how he felt for you, and you repaid him by being callous. He _left_ because of you, because you were too afraid to tell him that you care for him beyond using him.”

Something catches in Alexander’s chest at that. Fault. _His_ fault. He tries to fight it but it finds a place and settles inside.

“He should have known,” he mutters. “He _had_ to have known. He just wanted me to admit it aloud.”

“Would that have been so horrible?” she asks, and continues before he can reply _yes, the worst._ “Everything doesn’t have to be a power struggle. You thought he might hurt you, so you hit back, like you always do with him. The stupid arguments you had when you were younger. The duel. Writing that damn pamphlet where you told _everyone_ that you forgave him, instead of just telling him yourself.”

So what if he expects people to be worse than they are? And he’s usually correct — they will eventually disappoint you.

“Sometimes,” Eliza says, “you expect that people know how you feel. You don’t even tell me…”

Her voice trails off, and Alexander strains his ears to hear the tiny hitch in her breath.

“Do you want me to stop this, with Burr?” he asks. “I’ll never speak of him again, if that’s what you want.”

“I want you to admit why you want him.”

“I want a lot of things. This isn’t more important than those.”

“Oh, sure,” Eliza says. “Fame, power, wealth, attention — and you’d do anything for it.”

“That’s unfair.” Especially since so many of those things he has are due to a jumpstart by marrying into her family.

“And you have grand ideas. War, creating a government,” she says, “presidency—”

“That one was Burr’s idea,” Alexander argues. “And if I have been distant with him, it’s because he was distant with me first.”

Eliza sighs and pulls away from him. For a moment, Alexander wonders what he said wrong — or what surpassed her limit of tolerance — but she snuffs out the candle and returns to her place next to him.

“You’ve kept yourself from being happy,” she says, in the dark. “The both of you.”

“I’m fine.” He is. He will be. Eventually.

“Okay.” Eliza kisses him and doesn’t argue the matter any further. He knows she won, by how he is awake all night, guilty for so many reasons.

 

* * *

 

It’s up to Alexander to mend things between Theo and his family. Angie won’t speak to him — too embarrassed — and Al pretends not to now what he’s talking about, and Eliza claims she can’t get involved because she isn’t supposed to know, so…it falls to him.

The day after his pillow-talk conversation with Eliza, and after a particularly tense breakfast, Alexander goes to find Theo because honestly, he cannot have any more drama in his life. He has enough of his own.

She’s in the library, secluded in a corner, reading, with her feet tucked under her. She sighs when she sees Alexander approach, but she makes room for him to sit next to her. He flops down, ignoring what Eliza has said about him tearing up the seats if he keeps doing that. Theo scoots over, still not saying anything. Alexander peers over, trying to read from her book, but she snaps it shut and _aha,_ finally looks at him.

“I suppose you hate me, too,” Theo says, scornful. Her mouth is formed into a straight line, eyes blank, expression resigned, like she expects to be loathed — or deserves it. But Alexander has a lifetime of experience with the Burr self-deprecation and sees right through it. She’s upset.

“Of course not,” he says, and there’s a flicker of…relief? Theo’s grim smile is there for only a moment, but it’s something.

He clears his throat. “When Angie was growing up, I often thought about what it would be like when a man asked for her hand,” he says. “She was our only girl for a long time. I tried to treat her the same as my sons. I let her play rough with me like the boys did, climbing all over me and rumpling my clothes. I taught her how to play the piano. I even played dolls with her, spending hours of putting different outfits on them, because she kept asking me to do it again.”

Theo snorts laughter, then waves her hand. “Sorry, it’s just — my father did the same. Play dolls with me.” She bites down on her smile. “Please continue.”

He isn’t really sure where he was going with it. He would ask more about Burr playing with dolls — because that is an amusing thought — but, anyway.

“I did everything I could for her,” Alexander says, “because I feared the day she would leave home. But then Philip died and she — she changed.” He pauses. “Then her prospects changed and even though I wanted her to have her own life, there was a part of me that was glad, because then nobody could hurt her more. Does that make me terrible?”

“Sort of,” she says. “But it’s understandable.”

Alexander shrugs. “But then she was happy — more than I thought she would ever be again. I know it was because of you, and I am so thankful…”

“Mister Hamilton.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I want her to be happy. I want you to be happy. You two are young and have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t waste it on being miserable.”

They have a chance. Let them learn from the mistakes of the generation before them. There doesn’t always have to be a war.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Theo asks, quietly. “Haven’t I hurt her? Like you feared?”

“Because I like you, Theo Burr,” he says. “You make Angie happy, which makes _me_ happy, and you’re like part of the family now so—”

Theo throws her arms around him. The hug is quick, nothing more than a squeeze with her face pressed against his shoulder, and Alexander hardly has enough time to process it and hug her back before she pulls away, looking at a loss why she did such a thing.

“Here.” Theo pulls a slip of paper out of her book and hands it to Alexander. “This is where my father is staying in London. He’s going by the surname Edwards.”

The paper is useless, it has the name of an inn and an address thousands of miles away, but it feels extremely valuable in his hands. It’s something that gives him an answer.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” He attempts to be nonchalant, but he holds the paper tight in his hand, as though he’s afraid she’ll change her mind and take it back, or that it could fly out of his hands like a leaf.

“In case you wanted it,” Theo says. “To…I don’t know. Write to him. Fix what you did.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

But Alexander slips the precious paper into his pocket. Keeping if safe.

“He thinks the same of you,” Theo says, and Alexander can’t argue with that — he wouldn’t think he liked him either, if he were Aaron Burr.

 

* * *

 

He starts a letter to Burr that night, now that he has his address. He means to tell him off, saying—

_There are some things I need to say that I could never say in person because you’d get so emotional and I could never finish, but I also cannot put them in a letter — for obvious reasons — however you went away because you do not care, so what different does it make?_

—but he burns the letter before the ink dries. He doesn’t want to talk to Burr if Burr doesn’t want to talk to him. He’ll prove he’s the most stubborn of the two of them.

He decides to take a nap instead, and goes to look for Cleo — he likes her next to him while he sleeps — but she’s nowhere to be found. He thinks _where would I be if I were a cat_ , which leads him to Burr’s bedroom door, again. Cleo is there, because she apparently hasn’t given up on Burr. She meows and rubs against the door and Alexander lets her inside because he feels sorry for her, but once he opens the door and looks inside, he is too curious.

Cleo watches from where she’s curled up on the bed while Alexander riffles through Burr’s things. A thin layer of dust covers the things Burr left behind — clothing, trinkets, books. Alexander had thought that it meant that he planned to come back sometime, but now he isn’t so sure. Maybe Burr left with intentions to never return.

A journal falls from a stack of books onto the floor. He bends to pick it up and place it back where it was, but something catches his eye; a piece of fabric sticking out, bookmarking a page.

He looks around the room, as though someone _else_ could be there. But only Burr’s cat is there.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t read Burr’s personal journal, but he left it and he won’t know, and…

The bookmarked page is blank. Curious, he flips through the pages and finds that the entire journal is unused. He doesn’t know why Burr would’ve had something to mark it, but then he realizes—

—it’s his garter.

The one he thought he lost months ago, the navy-blue one with a fancy seam, the one he put the match away because he gave up looking for it. The one that Burr removed when he took off his clothes, piece by piece, and Burr’s hands lingered a little too long (but not long enough) on his skin. Burr _kept_ his garter, hidden away like it’s something repulsive or something precious.

Alexander rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He remembers that night — when he came to Burr’s bed and didn’t even think about it. He could have slept another night on his office sofa or had someone else help with his clothes but no, he went to Burr, because he can depend on Burr when he needs him.

And Burr isn’t here anymore. He is alone.

This — this means something. Burr held onto this souvenir of trust and intimacy and tenderness. He blushes at the thought of Burr keeping it because he wanted something _smutty_ of him, but then thinks that perhaps Burr was too embarrassed to return it. Either way, it is because it means something. If it were only lust between them, they would have resolved that already — they’re both men of indulgence, they would’ve worked out the sexual frustrations — but Alexander would be lying that it was only _lust_ he felt when Burr’s hands were on him that night when he tenderly undressed him.

And he’d be lying if he didn’t go there that night with that on his mind — an experiment to see what could happen.

He wants more proof. He goes through Burr’s possessions, not caring to keep them neat or inconspicuous, he doesn’t care if Burr knows he was looking. He needs to know.

He finds a small box hidden under winter clothing, and in it there are papers. Letters in bundles and scraps of parchment and clippings from newspapers, and upon looking he sees that they all involve him. Articles about his and Burr’s new business, articles from when they worked together after the war, the story about their duel — which looks as if it were ripped out instead of neatly cut like the others. There’s a note that he had wrote to Burr during a trial, when he wanted to say something before Burr gave the closing argument — _you’ll do fine, you are brilliant, and I should know because it takes a genius to recognize a genius._ A doodle that he drew at work one day. Letters, correspondence between them from when Burr was living at the Capitol, a rare letter from the war, and letters from that horrible time when they were enemies.

He never did read the final letter Burr sent him before they met their fate in Weehawken. He had sent it back, too angry and too prideful, because no matter what Burr had to say, he wasn’t going to change his mind.

And here they are.

The letter is easy to find at the bottom of the stack. The paper has yellowed slightly, but otherwise in good condition. He handles it as though it’s a delicate artifact, as though it’ll crumble into dust if he’s too aggressive. He shouldn’t read it — what if he gets angry all over again? What if Burr said something that he wished to hear and because of his stupidity he lost the opportunity to have it from him?

It’ll kill him if he doesn’t know what’s inside, and nearly two years later, he opens the letter addressed to him with the date _June 21, 1804._

He reads it, and then he reads it again.

He’s almost disappointed. He had hoped for something monumental — a confession, or something damning, but Burr’s words are as impassive as ever, with the mercilessness to it that they threw at each other back then. Burr had gave him every option to change his mind, implying _you can say you didn’t mean it and I’ll forget it all, because do you really want to do this_? He was almost pleading for him to reconsider.

Would it have made a difference if he had read it then? Probably not. Definitely not.

It’s hard to think of a time before what they are now. What they are — he doesn’t know, but it’s something, not the _nothing_ they’ve been excusing it as for too long. All of these mementos which Burr kept about him prove it’s not nothing, and _god_ , how could he be so stupid, letting Burr leave? He had been so focused on himself, he hasn’t thought of Burr. Burr has always been too thorny to make friends easily — but that’s because they don’t understand him, and Alexander understands him a little better than most — and his wife died and he lost the Presidency and there was the humiliation with the duel and his only child is growing up and…Alexander’s heart aches for him.

He can’t let Burr be alone.

 

* * *

 

“I know,” Eliza says when he tells her of his plans to follow Burr to England.

“It’s something I must do,” Alexander says. “I cannot continue without knowing.”

“I know,” she repeats, and, yes. She always knows. She knows how his passions outrun his passions, and she knows his restless soul.

 

* * *

 

They send for Angelica to come from her western New York home to help out at the Grange while Alexander is gone. When Angelica arrives, she tries to talk sense into him — as she always does — but his mind is made up. He’s set to leave the following morning.

“I don’t understand,” Angelica tells him. She’s hurt, worried he’s making a mistake. Maybe he is. But it would be a mistake not to go.

“Trust me.” There was a time in Alexander’s life where he would have never doubted her trust, but he ruined that, too.

He kisses her hand. “Please.” He can’t lose anyone else.

“Don’t give me another reason not to trust you,” she says.

He can’t make any promises.

 

* * *

 

He spends the final night with Eliza. It feels almost as bad when they were newlyweds and he left her to go to war. He promises over and over that he’ll return, fervid whispers into her skin as he moves against her, and she says, “I know, you always come back to me.”

“You’re more than enough,” Alexander says, “You are everything.”

—and he stays awake listening to her sleep, worried that he won’t be able to leave.

 

* * *

 

Al is angry with him for going, William tears up when he realizes how far away England is, and John tries to act tough like he isn’t upset but he ends up hugging him and begging him not to leave. Eliza ushers the children along, making them tell him farewell. He gives them each a kiss on the forehead and tells them to be good for their mother and aunt, and gives Rita extra cuddles in the hopes that she won’t forget him while he’s gone.

To Angie, he whispers in her ear, “Don’t be angry with Theo. She cares for you too much.”

Angie nods. “Okay.” She looks over to Theo and they share a small smile. Good.

After a moment of hesitation, Angie asks, “What if you don’t come back? Like Philip?” and he pulls her into a hug and promises he’ll never disappear.

Theo gives him a letter — sealed — to give to Burr.

“Thanks,” Theo says, and Alexander replies, “The best thanks you can give me is to make my daughter happy.”

Angelica calls him an idiot but cries anyway when he kisses her on the cheek, and he tells Eliza he loves her more than anything, _everything_ , and—

—then he leaves, alone, without looking back. He has never looked back, and he won’t start now.

 

* * *

 

The ocean is worse than he remembers, a violent, destructive force that wants him dead. He thinks he made a mistake, but he can’t go back. His stomach is sick and his heart is sick — he cries alone in his cabin, missing his family.

He thinks of the last time when he was on a ship — he was leaving Nevis forever because he knew in his heart he wasn’t going to ever go back. He was sent off with donated clothes and public money and best wishes, because they knew the best thing they could do for him was to get rid of him. And so, he became a son of the island without a home.

He almost died back then, only nineteen. What if he dies now? He is a fool to test fate. What if death catches up to him and he leaves his family alone, what if they die while he’s gone and he won’t know until it’s too late, it could happen, people die all the time—

It’s too overwhelming to miss them all at once, so he spends each day focusing on them one at a time. Each of his children, and his dear Betsey — and he thinks what he’ll say when he sees them again.

 

* * *

 

Alexander finds Burr.

He finds him despite the distance and the strange land and everything else between them. He tells Burr why he wants him, because he never did before and he had a lot of time on the journey to think about it, but he couldn’t come up with a reason more than _I want you so bad I can’t think straight, so bad all my bones shake, so bad I can’t breathe._ For once, he can’t articulate _why_ but he cares and Burr is so _so_ important to him, and he’s willing to figure it out, if Burr is willing to as well.

And he is, he is — Burr kisses him, needy and hot and wanting, and Alexander kisses him back, just as desperate. They undress each other, stumble to bed, they can’t stop _touching,_ exploring the other _._ Burr is stunningly gorgeous — he looks a little tired and his hair is longer, but he’s well-toned, better built than he has any right to be, has the same deep, rich brown color all over, and downward…that’s nice too.

Alexander blushes, lying nude facing Burr but it’s wonderful because Burr is looking at him in the same way, like he’s finally content.

“I want you,” Alexander says between kisses, and Burr echoes it back to him and oh, it sounds so nice to hear. He wants to tell him more, he wants to say _I like your annoying habits and I like your elegant speech that makes me mad with jealousy and I like how you’re grumpy in the morning and I like how you think I’m clever and and and_

Alexander touches him first, putting his hand on Burr’s cock. It’s hard — _for him_ , he thinks, and his own cock twitches at that. Burr takes in a deep, sharp breath and Alexander sees his muscles tense.

“Is this okay?” Alexander asks, mumbling against Burr’s chest. They’re pressed close, forced together by a too-small bed and their want for each other.

Burr nods. “Yes. It’s — it’s good,” he says and he closes his eyes, like he can’t believe that this is happening to him. Alexander wants to prove it to him, so he won’t ever have to second guess. He kisses that beautiful neck of Burr’s, grips him tighter, dragging his thumb against him and then rolls back foreskin to reveal the head where slick precome is leaking out. Alexander moans softly at that but then he kisses Burr to quiet it, and Burr kisses back, just as urgently and heated — no talking is necessary. Alexander sucks at Burr’s bottom lip, tasting, licking — he tastes so good, and he bets he would taste good in other places too, but this will have to do for now. Kissing — which started it all — and Burr thick and heavy in his hand.

Burr curses softly, and then curses again when Alexander laughs at him. “Tease,” Burr grumbles, but his breath catches in his throat when Alexander strokes him firmly from base to tip. He trembles slightly, and Alexander thinks that he might push him away at any minute because he’ll have enough, but Burr opens his eyes and focuses on Alexander’s. That’s almost too much for Alexander, those sultry brown eyes. He had missed how Burr looks at him.

It looks as though Burr wants to say something. Alexander kisses him before he can.

It’s been a while since he’s handled a cock from this angle, but it’s quickly familiar and he handles it nicely. Soon he’s worked up to a rhythm that’s got Burr making all sorts of sounds that he’s never heard from him before. He finds what Burr likes, how he likes to be touched and what can bring out more of those wonderful sounds. Burr’s breathing quickens, he gasps when his balls are touched and _oh_ that’s nice how they visibly tighten, he licks his lips and he’s so damn kissable, but what’s most delicious is how Burr says his name choked in each syllable — _Al-ex-an-der._

Alexander licks his hand, savoring the taste of Burr, and then touches Burr again, with purpose, quicker now that it’s wetter. Burr says something unintelligible, mumbling against Alexander’s lips as his fingers fumble at Alexander’s side, grasping. Wanting.

“You don’t have to,” Alexander says, even though he wants Burr to touch him oh-so-badly — he hadn’t thought too much about his own throbbing need between his legs because he had been so concerned about Burr’s, but when Burr shows an interest, it’s all he can think of. He keeps his hand on Burr but arches, rubbing his cock against Burr’s hip and as a result, he feels Burr’s cock twitch in his hand — there’s no denying that he likes _this_ , with him. Burr’s hand travels down, skimming down his side, pausing for a moment at the place Alexander knows is where the scar of his bullet exists.

He kisses Burr roughly, says, “Please.” Please don’t stop please don’t think of that please don’t. Another kiss for encouragement, and Burr obliges, reaching down further, curving against his hip and then—

It’s worth it if he had to travel across an ocean for this, to be touched by Burr. It’s a little awkward while Burr figures out the mechanics — touching not too hard but not too gentle — but it feels wonderful, Burr’s big strong hand wrapped around his dick, stroking and bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Alexander rewards him when he does something right, nipping at his neck and twisting his wrist just so, which makes Burr curse and buck into his hand. He matches how Alexander touches him, and Alexander can’t help but whimper — he has to bite down on _begging_ for more, but he almost doesn’t care — he has Burr now. Their kisses turn sloppy, one misses and lands on Burr’s chin, but Burr moves his head so he can meet his mouth with his.

“Alex,” Burr says, his voice deep. Alexander can feel it rumble against his chest where they’re pressed against each other, and he grabs Burr’s arm with his free hand to steady himself because everything is making the fire in his veins burn hotter. Burr circles his thumb around the ridge of Alexander’s cock and Alexander _does_ ask for more then, and Burr makes an amused sound but there’s no bite to it. Burr is enjoying this. He _likes_ him. He’s here and making him feel amazing and oh my god, Aaron Burr is jerking him off. Burr smears precome down Alexander’s length, all the way down and rubs at the base — he’s horrible, working him up and then prolonging it — but it feels _wonderful,_ and he wants it to last forever, but then Burr goes back to uneven fast strokes at the tip and he isn’t going to last much longer.

“Burr.” Alexander blinks, and he realizes that they’ve got their hands on each other, this is what he’s wanted, not because it’s the pleasure of a body against a body but because it’s Burr — and he squeezes his eyes shut and he comes, spilling over Burr’s hand and onto their stomachs. The orgasm is fucking incredible — he knows he’s making noise but he doesn’t care because Burr is warm against him and _wants_ him and he’s kissing him as he shudders through it.

Burr lets him go and looks down, like he’s surprised that happened. When Alexander can think clearly he teases him, asking, “What did you expect?” Burr says something and thrusts into Alexander’s hand — Alexander had stopped the motions when he came, too occupied on enjoying it — and Alexander starts again, in time to Burr’s thrust, one, two, and then Burr comes.

Aaron Burr is beautiful when he comes. Visceral — Alexander can feel himself stir just watching him. He shuts his eyes and he lets himself feel it entirely, but Alexander wants him to look at him, he wants him to _see_ him, remind him that he’s there.

He doesn’t forget. He kisses Alexander right after, while he’s still breathing hard. Most of Burr’s release got on Alexander somehow, but Alexander doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s resisting the urge the wipe some up and taste but — too soon.

“Alexander.” Maybe it’s a question, Alexander doesn’t know, but he presses his forehead to Burr’s and exists with him, for the moment, because they won’t have this again — their first time. Burr kisses him, his nose, his mouth, down his neck and to his collarbone, until he starts kissing him back and it becomes a mess.

“Hold on.” Burr gets out of bed, walks a few paces to the table and picks up a rag, dips it in the basin. Alexander sits up on his elbow, admiring the nice view of Burr’s bare backside, but then blushes when Burr turns around and he’s caught looking. But he doesn’t avert his eyes, and Burr doesn’t either. He brings the rag back and cleans them down, wiping the sticky satisfaction off their skin — first cleaning Alexander, then himself, before tossing it to the floor and lying back down with him.

“Are you okay?” Alexander is afraid to ask but he has to know. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Burr says without elaboration. He sounds more relaxed than usual but that could just be the orgasm. Alexander wants to ask him again, he wants for Burr to explain, but Burr shoves at Alexander so he’ll turn on his side. Alexander does, his back facing Burr and he’s feeling sad but Burr curls around Alexander and rests his arm across his waist and presses his chest to his back, _snuggling_ , and all Alexander’s worries dissipate. Alexander wiggles to get comfortable, but Burr holds him still and tells him to _stop_ and Alexander goes to protest but doesn’t complain because Burr pulls the duvet over them and he kisses the back of his neck. There isn’t much room to go on the bed, but Alexander would be close to him anyway, by choice. It’s nice, feeling Burr’s warmth mixing with his own, his body against his, their breathing lining up. It feels right, like how it has all those other times when they shared a bed and ended up tangled together in the middle of the night.

This time, they don’t have to pretend it’s an accident.

“Sleep,” Burr says into Alexander’s ear, as though he could tell that Alexander was on the precipice of a question. “We can talk in the morning.”

Alexander nods. They have the time, now. He found Burr, and Burr wanted to be found. It’s going to be okay. It is okay.

He sleeps, and Burr does, too.

 

* * *

 

Before he opens his eyes, he knows he’s somewhere different — not at home or the unforgiving nightmare of the ship. He’s _happy_ , something he hasn’t truly felt in a while. He rubs his eyes and looks out the window where parted curtains reveal an overcast day, and he remembers he’s in London, and then it occurs to him that he didn’t pay much attention to the room before he fell into bed with Burr, and then he remembers _Burr_ and he can’t help the smile and the fluttering feeling in his chest, like he’s a teenager with his first crush. He really is here, and for once they managed honesty — and there was sex and kissing and falling asleep together and—

He realizes he’s much too cold. He looks over his shoulder and the other side of the bed is empty.

He sits up, the blanket falling to his waist. Burr isn’t in the tiny room, either, and panic sets in. Burr left him again. He’s sure of it. Burr left him all alone in a strange country, he got what he wanted, he _used_ him and left — that heartless, terrible man — or maybe Burr didn’t like him as much as he thought he did and he left so he wouldn’t have to tell him, that coward—

Alexander picks his clothes up off the floor and dresses in a rush. He doesn’t bother with a jacket or cravat and goes downstairs, leaning heavily on his cane as he hurriedly takes one step at a time — goddamn stairs, a blight to humanity — and he knows that he’ll never forgive himself if he lets Burr get away again.

But once he’s in the main room and ignores the suspicious-looking characters, he sees Burr hasn’t gone far at all — he’s at a table in the corner, eating breakfast, and _oh_ what a relief, he didn’t leave him! But the feeling is brief because there’s a woman half in Burr’s lap and he’s smiling at her and offering his fork to her and there’s that panicky feeling again.

Alexander stomps over to them. They don’t seem to notice him over the low murmur of the room, but the woman eats from the fork and then leans in and kisses Burr and Alexander can hear the appreciative noise Burr makes. Alexander _knows_ that sound, he discovered it last night when he licked at Burr’s neck, and only _he_ should be making Burr make that sound.

He raps his cane against the table leg. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Burr takes his attention away from the woman, and the way he looks at Alexander makes Alexander want to yell — he looks at him like it’s no big deal that he’s there, that he didn’t brave the ocean for him, that he didn’t make him come hard the night previous. It’s almost evasive, not directly meeting his eyes, and Alexander begins to doubt it all not for the first time. He’s ready to end it before Burr can, but then Burr smiles at him and goddamn, he could really hate him.

“Good morning,” Burr says, and gestures to the seat next to him, which Alexander claims, possessively. Burr gives him an exasperated look, sighs, and turns to the woman. “This is my friend—”

“Alexander,” he says, beating Burr to the introduction. He gives the woman his most charming smile and holds out his hand to shake hers. “It’s nice to meet you, miss…?”

She doesn’t disclose her name, but her face lights up, turning to Burr before looking back to him.

“So you’re _Alex_ ,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“He’s talked about me?” Alexander asks. That means Burr has spent a lot of time with this woman. He’s obviously fucked her. She’s just his type: breathing. He shouldn’t be jealous but he _is._ He wants Burr to be paying attention to _him_ , he wants Burr to be feeding him breakfast and sitting too close and kissing him and and and—

Burr clears his throat and — why is he looking so uncomfortable?

The woman leans across Burr to talk more directly to Alexander. She asks, “Both of you lads together then?” She winks at Alexander. “It’ll cost double but it’ll be worth it.”

Oh. _Oh,_ now Alexander understands. Of course, she’s a whore. Burr’s favorite pastime. He isn’t sure what to say because he’s kind of flabbergasted at the offer, but Burr laughs — a real one, not those fake laughs to join social normality.

“We’ll have to decline,” Burr says, standing, and he grabs ahold of Alexander’s arm, pulling him to a standing position. “Alexander is very tired. He came late last night.”

“I sure did,” Alexander says, unable to not take the opportunity of the lewd pun. Burr glares at him like he wants to kill him. He beams at Burr in return.

“I see.” The woman smirks at them. “Then you should take him back to your room, so he can rest.”

Burr’s grip on Alexander’s arm tightens.

“I’ll see you later,” Burr tells her, and Alexander doesn’t get a chance to say anything because Burr is dragging him away, back upstairs. Burr is mindful of Alexander needing to take his time on the stairs but he doesn’t talk to him, doesn’t even _look_ at him until they’re back in Burr’s drafty room with the door closed behind them.

“What have you told her about me?” Alexander asks, right off. He’s feeling betrayed, angry, unwanted — and Burr doesn’t seem to care. “What did you say? Did you complain about me to her? Did you tell her you ran away from me because you were freaked out that you wanted to fuck me?”

Burr sighs and sits down at the foot of the bed.

“I didn’t say anything about you,” Burr says. “Other than…I had a friend that I missed. She doesn’t know anything that’s between us.”

“It sounded like she knows a lot.”

“She’s just a whore, Hamilton,” Burr says. “They infer those things, you know.”

“Actually, I _don’t_ know because I don’t make a habit out of spending time with whores.” He frowns. “Did she really need to sit in your lap?”

Burr holds out his hand. “Come here,” he says, and Alexander is still mad at him but he puts his hand in his anyway. He focuses on the feeling of their palms together while Burr coerces him to sit next to him. He feels a little ridiculous making a big deal out of it but it _is_ a big deal, they’ve just resolved their problem and there was Burr, getting cozy with someone that isn’t him.

He looks down to his lap, too embarrassed to face Burr, but Burr nudges him.

“I have something for you.” Burr reaches into his coat and takes out a small paper package. Alexander takes it, and there’s the scent of sweetness and it’s warm in his hands. He salivates as he quickly opens it, unwrapping to see a delicious-looking pastry covered with sugary glaze.

“There’s a bakery across the street,” Burr says. “I remembered you have a propensity for sweet things, and I figured you’d be hungry so…”

Alexander takes a bite. He’s actually starving — he hasn’t had a good meal in weeks and the ones he had on the ship he could barely keep down, so he preferred to be hungry and thin down instead of making himself sicker. And he figured if he died of starvation before he reached England, then, well, he wouldn’t have to confront Burr. He takes another bite, moaning at the taste, and he’s glad he didn’t starve because Burr is patting his back and smiling at him and…it’s nice.

He’s almost scarfed the pastry down when he realizes that Burr had been worrying over him. He swallows, licks his fingers — wonders if Burr would want to clean them for him — and then shoves the rest of it in his mouth.

“Thanks,” Alexander says. Burr makes a sound at him speaking with his mouth full but he must excuse him for being hungry because he smiles and says, “You’re welcome.”

It’s odd, not knowing what to say. Alexander doesn’t know if he should bring up the night before, how much he liked it and how he’s dying to get his hands on him again, or if they’ve reverted back to it being unspeakable.

“You fucked her,” Alexander says, for lack of anything else.

Burr nods. “And other women, too. Is that a problem?”

“Yes.” Alexander pauses. “No. It’s just that I’m here and…you’re always _leaving_ me.”

“It isn’t always about you, Alexander.”

“It is! You didn’t stick around when we were younger—”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“And that time when you left for the Capitol—”

“That was my _job._ ”

“And you left the country.”

“I did.”

“And then you left me alone in bed this morning—”

“Can I not be away from you for one moment?” Burr asks. “I washed up and went outside to smoke — because I know you hate it and I didn’t want it to wake you — and then I bought you breakfast.”

Alexander huffs. “And you were canoodling with that whore. You kissed her.” He doesn’t say: _I wanted to kiss you._

Burr’s mouth quirks into a grin. “Are you jealous?”

“Of course I’m jealous,” he says, and it surprises himself, even. “I don’t like you being with someone else. With women.”

Burr shrugs. “I like women. I don’t see why I have to stop that when it comes to us.”

 _Us._ What a beautiful word.

“So you want to continue this?” Alexander asks, making sure. “Us?”

“Yes, you plonk.” Burr brushes back Alexander’s bed-tangled hair and kisses his temple. “I’ve finally grown fond of you, after all these years.”

“Good,” Alexander says, but then adds, “But you’re supposed to like just _me._ ”

“Just you, huh?”

“Just me.”

Burr doesn’t argue. Instead, he kisses where Alexander’s collar is open.

“Did I tell you I am glad you’re here?” Burr asks, and Alexander shakes his head because they didn’t do much talking last night after they stopped arguing. Burr smiles and kisses another patch of skin. “How are you here, anyway?”

“Theo told me.”

Burr utters a profanity. “She never listens.”

“I’m glad she didn’t.”

Burr keeps kissing him, up his neck and to his face and mouth, sliding in his tongue and leaning into the kiss. Alexander can taste the coffee Burr drank and tobacco and the taste of _Burr_ that he’s never going to tire of.

“You want me,” Alexander softly says. Not asks.

“Yes,” Burr replies, “for some insane reason.”

“You want me,” Alexander repeats, smiling. “You want me, Aaron Burr.”

Burr pulls back, and his eyes are full of wanting. “But what I want most at this moment…”

Alexander’s pulse gets caught in his throat. Breathless. “Yes?”

“I’d like you to take a bath.”

Alexander laughs, leaning against Burr. “Okay,” he says, because he knows he isn’t the best smelling at the moment — he has a month of filth from travel and sticky leftovers from fucking, and a good soak sounds like a delight, but first…

One last kiss, to prove it’s real.

It’s real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time, I know.
> 
>  **Notes!**  
>  \- "We say we are asleep until we fall in love" [lovingly borrowed from "Dust and Ashes"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KljDgiJM6Ck) from The Great Comet.  
> \- Alexander did have a brother, who continued to live on the island after Alexander left. Apparently, he was a carpenter. And then died very early and never saw Alexander again. [Here's](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-03-02-0444) a letter Alexander sent him not long before he died.  
> \- "Proud though Hamilton was of his appearance, he did not mind having his neatly powdered hair mussed, and he let the boys and Angelica climb all over his immaculate clothes. He seemed actually to enjoy dressing and undressing Angelica’s doll, as often as his little daughter demanded..." [x](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/162204816652/alexander-hamilton-was-a-loving-father-no-matter)  
> \- Alexander didn't read the last letter sent from Burr. But [you can read it](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-26-02-0001-0207)


	18. Aaron IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, part one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some mild internalized homophobia that'd be around the canon time period. 
> 
> Mostly sex. But with plot and feelings.

Hamilton watches Aaron prepare the bath. Aaron drags the metal tub in the room, which makes the small room even smaller, so he has to step around it to start the fire and heat bucketful after bucketful of water.

Hamilton doesn’t offer to help, of course. He just sits on the edge of the bed as Aaron trudges back and forth in the room. Aaron tells himself it’s worth it for Hamilton to not stink, and for Hamilton to take off his clothes.

Clothes — which Hamilton is currently taking off, slowly. He makes sure Aaron is paying attention — and Aaron _is_ paying attention. He can’t _not_ look as Hamilton strips, especially when it occurs to him that Hamilton is stripping _for_ him. Hamilton demands attention with each bit of skin revealed, until he’s naked in front of Aaron. Proud. Confident.

Aaron thinks Hamilton should be proud. Hamilton is attractive in all the best ways, and Aaron is ashamed for thinking so. He likes the handsome features of Hamilton’s face, and he likes Hamilton’s masculinity — he likes where Hamilton is hard instead of soft like a woman, and he’s fascinated by the trail of hair that starts below his belly button and travels down into a dark patch around his cock, and he’s fascinated with how his balls hang lower than his, and he’s fascinated by a lot of other things, too — namely how Hamilton is comfortable with all of this. Aaron isn’t able to think of the night before, when he felt a similar comfort in being bare next to Hamilton, because now it seems like some kind of fever dream that he’s going to wake up from at any moment.

As though his uncertainty is palpable, Hamilton walks over to him — step _limp_ step — and he’s there, smiling too smug, and he leans in and kisses him on the lips, gentle. Reassuring.

He isn’t sure if he could ever be sure of Hamilton. But he might, if Hamilton keeps kissing him like that…

“Go on, before it gets cold,” Aaron mumbles against Hamilton’s mouth. “And you smell bad.”

Hamilton grumbles a complaint but he does as Aaron says. He holds onto Aaron’s shoulder to steady himself as he steps into the tub one leg at a time, and then he bends (Aaron takes his chance to check out Hamilton’s bare ass) and braces himself on the side of the tub. As he sits in the water, he lets out a long sigh that sounds a lot like when his dick is touched, and Aaron feels warm at the memory. But Aaron cannot look away, watching as Hamilton bends his knees so the water rises to his chest, then pulls his hair back and wraps it in a tight knot around itself, tucking the end into the bun. He does it quick, probably having done it many times throughout his life — Aaron has never known Alex without his long hair. Aaron likes Hamilton’s hair, he likes it when it hangs in his face when he’s writing, he likes it when Hamilton tucks a strand behind his ear when he’s talking, he likes it when it’s bed-tangled in the morning, and he likes to think about the noise Hamilton might make when it’s pulled. However, he also likes it when it’s pulled back, so he can see Hamilton’s stunning features better and he can see Hamilton’s neck, making it perfect to kiss him there—

“You’re staring,” Hamilton says.

Yes, he is. Because now he’s allowed to, openly. Hamilton’s skin is already a nice pink color from the warm bathwater, and maybe he’s blushing a bit, too. Hamilton likes to be looked at, and that’s only more reason for Aaron to admire his body. Hamilton sits up and flexes his arms as he stretches over his head, obviously pleased that Burr can’t keep his eyes off of him.

So, there’s no need to pretend — Aaron drags the chair next to the tub to watch.

There is an odd sense of déjà vu as he watches Hamilton bathe. He can’t help but think of before when he watched Hamilton bathe, except he didn’t observe him in such a sensual manner. He probably wanted to back then, but he didn’t understand the impulse. But Hamilton knew. Hamilton knew what he was doing back then. And Hamilton knows what he’s doing now, preening as he rubs soap on his body — chest, shoulders, arms, over all those lovely freckles. Hamilton keeps looking at Aaron, and his gaze is as hot as the steam from the water that’s curling against Aaron’s skin. Aaron feels a heat curling in his stomach, too…

“You’re still staring.” Hamilton lifts his left foot out of the water and rests it on the edge of the tub to scrub at his leg. He flashes Aaron a flirtatious glance, feigning coyness. “Someone would think that you’re interested.”

“Someone would think you’re delinquent.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of that,” Hamilton replies. He puts his leg back in, then props his other leg up. “But you like a bit of delinquency, don’t you?”

Aaron gets a peek of Hamilton’s inner thigh. He knows from experience that it’s soft to the touch (his hand clutching it as he stroked Hamilton off with his other hand). He wonders if Hamilton would let him wash him down, but then he realizes _of course_ Hamilton would, that greedy, horrible man.

A greedy, horrible, wonderful man.

Aaron still thinks it’s too good to be true. He thought that he had lost Hamilton forever, but Hamilton had found a way into his life yet again, and for once, Aaron is thankful. He isn’t in the habit of questioning blessings, but why is Hamilton here? Did he also discover that he didn’t know he had needed something until it was missing?

“May I?” Aaron asks, holding his hand out. Hamilton gives him a curious look but passes the rag to him, and then relaxes in the bath, waiting.

Aaron pushes up his sleeves, then goes behind Hamilton and puts the rag to his back — he notes how Hamilton’s muscles tense when he’s touched — and starts washing in firm circular motions. It’s wonderful for two reasons: he gets to touch Hamilton’s soap-slick skin, and because he won’t have to look at the man as he speaks with him.

“What changed your mind?” Aaron asks. He washes the place between Hamilton’s shoulder blades, where he imagines Hamilton carries a lot of his struggles. “What convinced you to visit London?”

Because he knows that Hamilton would not have taken the risk without the elimination of reasonable doubt (he is a lawyer, after all). It’s something he’s been questioning since Hamilton showed up, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Couldn’t I have just wanted to see you?” Hamilton says, but then he sighs and there is the crux of something more — Aaron knows him well. _Too_ well.

“I found my garter,” Hamilton says, after a moment. He looks over his shoulder, and his expression is unreadable. “You know the one. You took it off me when I was in your bed, and then you picked it up off the floor and you hid it away.”

Oh, _that._ Aaron has tried to forget about that, but his pulse quickens when he thinks of Hamilton wanton in his bed and his hands against Hamilton as he took his garter off and slowly slid stockings down his legs, over his ankles, off his feet. How could he not know what Hamilton was speaking of? He thinks of it constantly — it comes to mind when he sees Hamilton’s tight breeches clinging to his thighs, and he remembers it in his dreams and he wakes up imagining how that evening could have ended differently.

“I recall the evening,” Aaron says, nonchalant. He scrubs at something he thinks is dirt, but it turns out to be a freckle. “So?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting that you held on to it as a memento?”

“No.” Aaron’s hands go lower, dipping down to the curve of Hamilton’s hip. Dangerously low. But Hamilton leans forward, wrapping his arms around his knees and curving his back so Aaron has better access to wash him.

“I also found our letters,” Hamilton says. He’s silent for a moment before continuing, “And I found the letters that we exchanged leading up to our duel.”

_No._

Hamilton says, “I read the one I sent back to you, unread.”

How _dare_ he exhume those bones, they’re fragile, liable to re-break under pressure—

Aaron throws the rag into the bath — splashing water on both of them — and then sits in the chair so he can face Hamilton, on his level. Hamilton looks funny, wet and pink-skinned, expression guilty like he knows he’s done something wrong but he couldn’t stop his impulses. Like a child stealing sweets. Or a dog shitting on the rug.

“You were snooping,” Aaron says. He kept those letters out of sight, but close enough to read every so often to remind himself that they’ve made progress, or when he’s feeling particularly horrible about himself. “I had those and your…” He clears his throat. “…garment hidden away in my private belongings.”

“Yes,” Hamilton admits, “but I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I still might not go back.” He may stay here and live in squalor for the rest of his life. It doesn’t sound too bad. He can drink and whore himself to death.

“Don’t be so difficult,” Hamilton says. “If I hadn’t looked through your belongings, I wouldn’t have known how you feel about me.” He frowns at Aaron. “Since you were never going to say anything.”

“What does your garter have to do with anything?”

Hamilton sighs. “I thought I lost it, but you kept it, and you kept all those other things about me.” He smiles, almost shyly. “You care about me.”

Aaron doesn’t confirm, nor deny. He doesn’t think that a piece of fabric and some years-old letters are anything conclusive of _feelings_. Hamilton must have needed them as a catalyst for his own feelings — to be brave enough to admit that he cares, too. Hamilton cares. He said so last night over and over in between kisses, and he _wants_ him — he won’t forget that.

Instead of talking, Aaron looks at Hamilton. There’s already a comfortable intimacy between them now that they’ve resolved some of the sexual tension they’ve been choking on for months.

He’s Hamilton’s _paramour_ , and…he kind of likes the sound of that.

Hamilton must feel the same ease, because he leans back in the tub, putting himself on display. Aaron sees his chest that’s decorated with scars, old and new, and he wants to know every inch of his skin. He touches Hamilton’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing over one of the older-looking scars. It’s rough and slightly risen on the skin, like the wound was deep and badly treated. “What happened here?”

Hamilton glances to his shoulder, as though he forgot the scar is there. “It’s when my horse was shot from under me at Monmouth,” he says. “I went down and if that wasn’t bad enough, I was hit by a stray bullet.”

Aaron nods. He has a scar of his own from that battle. Shot in his calf a few inches below his knee — he had dug out the bullet, bandaged it up and went back to fight. Of course, that was before the heatstroke.

“And here?” Aaron asks, running his finger along a thin line on Hamilton’s arm.

Hamilton grins. “I cut myself on chicken wire in the garden.”

“Here?” he asks, a starburst on Hamilton’s chest.

“Shrapnel.”

And then he touches the pinkest, ugliest scar on Hamilton’s body, the one nestled against his ribs.

“Here?” Aaron asks, hardly above a whisper. It’s hard to look at — the mark he left on Hamilton.

“A mistake.”

But it wasn’t a mistake, that’s the point—

Hamilton takes Aaron’s hand and kisses his knuckles, soft. “Burr?”

“Alexander?”

“You can still kiss me.”

Aaron doesn’t have to be told twice. He leans in and presses his lips to Hamilton’s, closing his eyes when he feels Hamilton’s parted to meet his. Ready, waiting, wanting. Hamilton slides his tongue against his and their noses bump when they turn their heads the same way. Hamilton has a bigger nose, but it suits him. Good nose. Good mouth. Good lips, plump and nice to lick.

Hamilton pulls away, blushing. It has to be from the kissing because the bathwater has gone cool.

“Would you wash my hair?” Hamilton asks, and that blush gets a little redder, traveling to his ears.

“Sure,” Aaron says, as though he hasn’t been dying to do this since the first time he helped Hamilton wash his hair. He needs to hide his eagerness — he has to keep something reserved.

“I have oil and soap for it in my bag.”

Aaron gets up and searches through Hamilton’s bag on the floor, finding the items easily. Hamilton lets his hair down, black unspooling from the bun and falling against his neck, sticking to wet skin. He is so effortlessly handsome. It makes Aaron so angry and jealous, that he could drown him.

Aaron moves the chair behind Hamilton and gets to work. He cups water in his hands and pours it on top of Hamilton’s head, ignoring when Hamilton complains that it gets in his face. When Hamilton’s hair is wet, making the color an even darker black, he soaps it up, rubbing the soap into Hamilton’s scalp. He then puts some of the oil in his hands — it smells like mint and something distinctively earthy — and mixes it in with the soap, spreading it down the length of Hamilton’s hair. It’s supposed to make it shiny, or maybe give it volume? Aaron can’t exactly remember what Hamilton had said before, but he remembers what he said after — _but what would you know, you don’t have any hair._

Nevertheless, he enjoys doing this as much as he did the first time. Hamilton sighs, relaxed. Hamilton’s shoulders loosen up and he keeps making those nice, affirmative sounds as Aaron’s fingers tangle in his hair. Aaron likes hearing those noises. He likes making Hamilton feel good. He decides to add something extra and massages the nape of Hamilton’s neck, and Aaron knows _that_ sound that comes from Hamilton, a throaty moan and sharp intake of breath—

“Are you getting off on this?” Aaron asks. When Hamilton lets out another moan as a reply, he looks around to Hamilton’s front and he sees that sure enough, Hamilton has a halfway-there erection. Hamilton doesn’t conceal it, either; he just smiles.

“I can’t help it,” Hamilton says. “It feels good.”

“Did this happen when I washed your hair before?”

“…Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“And after you left, I jerked off in the tub.”

“ _Hamilton._ ”

Aaron is frustrated, because Hamilton is impossibly unremitting, and because he feels himself stiffening and it’s all Hamilton’s fault.

Hamilton puts his hand around himself and strokes slow, bringing himself to full hardness. “Ah, like this,” he says. “I thought of what it’d feel like to have your hands on me, and I came so fucking hard.”

“Then let me,” Aaron says, reaching around from behind and replacing Hamilton’s hand with his own — Hamilton curses under his breath, _fucking yes Burr please._

The feeling of Hamilton’s cock in his hand isn’t unfamiliar — having been well acquainted with it last night — but it’s still new. The thickness of it, the slightest of an upward curve, the nice defined ridge, the velvet softness. But what is even better are the sounds Hamilton makes when he’s touched, like the breathy gasp and the plea in his voice when he asks for _more._

Aaron wants more, too — he touches Hamilton with more assurance than he had last night. It’s wonderfully wet, stroking Hamilton in the water with a firm grip. It’s working marvelously, already rendering Hamilton’s chattering to a silence except for the _ahs_ he lets out when Aaron strokes downward.

“We could…” Hamilton swallows, and starts again. “We could go to the bed.”

“You’ll just get dirty again,” Aaron says, mouthing hot against Hamilton’s neck. “I think I’ll have you right here.”

“ _Fuck_ , Burr—”

They’re making a mess, splashing water onto the floor and Aaron’s sleeve is wet and his shirt is soapy where Hamilton rests his head against him. It’s slick and easy, and Aaron thinks Hamilton is close, eyelashes fluttering and clutching the side of the tub and Aaron strokes him at the head, rubbing his thumb over it, until Hamilton can hardly mumble a quick warning before he comes thick and pearly white into the bathwater.

Aaron watches Hamilton’s face when he comes — eyes closed and open-mouthed with a hint of a smile.

After, they both stare where Hamilton’s release floats on top of the water.

“That’s disgusting,” Aaron says.

Hamilton laughs. “You won’t think so when yours joins it,” he says, motioning for Aaron to move his chair next to his. Greedy hands open Aaron’s breeches, and when those hands get on Aaron, he doesn’t have anything to complain about.

 

* * *

 

Aaron finishes washing Hamilton’s hair. He wishes he could take his time and maybe bring out another orgasm, but Hamilton hurries to get out because he’s cold. Or maybe, he realizes it’s gross to soak in dirtied water.

Hamilton dripping wet is a nice sight. Water from his hair runs down his back as he dries off, cursing at the chill in the room.

Aaron could go and stoke the fire but…he’d rather watch Hamilton. And touch Hamilton, too — which he remembers he can do, now. He can’t get used to that yet. He doesn’t know if he ever will.

Aaron discovers Hamilton smells good when he comes up behind him and kisses his neck.

“Am I more acceptable now that I’m spick and span?” Hamilton asks. “Or do I offend your delicate olfactory senses?”

He isn’t sure what compels him to do it — as most things happen with Hamilton — but he pinches Hamilton on his ass. Reaches down and grabs. Hamilton yelps and his eyes go wide with surprise, which quickly changes into a mischievous grin that distracts Aaron so much that Hamilton is able to pinch him in return.

“Smartass,” Aaron says.

“Yes, I am _smart_ and I’m notable for my ass,” Hamilton says, and Aaron tries to grope him again but he shoos him away.

Aaron changes his clothes while Hamilton dresses, his outfit too wet from helping Hamilton in the bath. Aaron wears a simple black and white ensemble, while Hamilton dons an outlandish purple with a black neckcloth. Aaron doesn’t dare say that it reminds him of something Jefferson would wear, but he has to admit that Hamilton is impeccable — nice clothes, beard trimmed, damp hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail with a black ribbon.

The main room is mostly empty when they go down for lunch, except for the old man, the two quiet women who keep to themselves, and the large guy who hoards the newspaper in the morning. They look at Aaron and Hamilton for a little too long for Aaron’s liking before going back to their business.

Aaron leads them to a table in the corner, away from everyone else. Aaron has coffee for lunch while Hamilton eats a hearty English meal, which he complains about. It’s either too salty or not salty enough, Aaron isn’t listening, nor does he mention that Hamilton doesn’t seem to have a problem eating it and asking for more.

Hamilton isn’t his concern.

Aaron is very conscious of people looking at him. They _are_ looking at him. Him and Hamilton. Discreet glances their way just long enough to catch them doing it. _They know_ , Aaron thinks. It must be discernable on his face somehow — that he slept with a man and liked it ( _he liked it_ , oh yes, he did), and that he wants to do it again (and again, and again). Or maybe the inn’s whore shared her suspicions with others, because she knows more than she needs to know. Or what if he and Hamilton have been too intimate in public? What if they were overheard? What if—?

“What’s wrong?”

Aaron focuses on Hamilton, and all he can think of is Hamilton naked in his bed, which makes him think of Hamilton rubbing his cock against him, which makes him hot with shame — and he wasn’t ashamed, not until everyone started judging him.

“They know.” Aaron leans in across the table to speak to him. “About us.”

Hamilton furrows his brows together, takes a survey of the room, and then looks back to Aaron. “You’re paranoid.”

“I’m not,” Aaron says through gritted teeth. “We need to be careful, Alexander.”

“If anything, your conspicuousness will get us caught.”

“How can you act as though everything is fine?”

“Because it _is_ fine—”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said _shut up,_ the innkeeper is coming over to us,” Aaron harshly whispers, and he kicks Hamilton under the table because he will not stop talking, and they bicker until the innkeeper is standing at the table. The innkeeper has a friendly demeanor, but something about it strikes Aaron in the wrong way.

 _He can’t know,_ Aaron thinks. _Don’t be ridiculous._

“Gentlemen,” the innkeeper says, looking to Aaron, to Hamilton, and to Aaron again. “Mister Edwards, I did not have the pleasure of meeting your friend when he arrived late last night.”

Hamilton opens his mouth but Aaron is quicker. “This is Alexander…Smith,” he says, gesturing out to Hamilton open palmed. “He’s from the States, too.”

Hamilton extends his hand, shakes the innkeeper’s. “Nice to meet you,” Hamilton says, enthusiastically, laying on the Hamilton-like charm.

He starts talking nonsense about the weather and the cobblestone and the war, and Aaron worries that Hamilton will say something wrong, but he doesn’t. Hamilton is perfectly at ease while anxiety eats away at Aaron. Aaron never understands how Hamilton fits into any situation so effortlessly. Hamilton’s silver tongue and adaptability are a couple of his many talents that have got him far in life.

The innkeeper interrupts Hamilton when he realizes that he isn’t going to stop anytime soon. He entices Hamilton with the bookshelf in the corner, telling him to borrow anything he likes. Intrigued with the promise of something new to read, Hamilton goes over to the bookshelf across the room. Aaron watches him go — he pathetically thinks _don’t leave me_ — but then snickers when Hamilton’s cane gets caught in the rug.

And then he realizes that he’s staring at Hamilton like an idiot.

Very inconspicuous indeed.

He hopes that the innkeeper missed the way he was looking at Hamilton, but no such luck. The innkeeper sits in Hamilton’s chair and clicks his tongue. “It’ll cost extra to have the guy here.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just gives Aaron an unblinking stare.

“We’re friends,” Aaron says, although he shouldn’t explain, that only makes it questionable.

The innkeeper shrugs. “I don’t care who he is. You’ve stayed here long enough to know that I don’t mind what goes on in this establishment as long as I don’t know about it,” he says, and then he adds, “and as long as I continue to be paid. Do you understand?”

Aaron bites the inside of his cheek. It’s enough of a proposition to not ask what the innkeeper knows. He wouldn’t be surprised if the innkeeper knows — he’s seen some shit in this place.

“That’s fair,” Aaron says. “Does the expense of an extra body in my room cover for the linens to be regularly changed?”

“A reasonable request.” The innkeeper settles back into the chair and crosses his arms. “You’re an alright guy, Edwards.”

“If you say so.”

Aaron glances over to Hamilton, as though he’s making sure he didn’t escape from him. Something like relief trills in his chest when he sees that Hamilton is still here — currently balancing a load of books in his arms. Hamilton frowns when one of the books falls to the floor, but then he catches Aaron’s gaze and he grins, brilliantly.

Aaron decides that this conversation is something he’ll keep to himself. Maybe Hamilton is right and he is being paranoid.

 

* * *

 

When they’re back in their room with privacy, Hamilton presses Aaron against the door, kissing him ravenously — as though he starved in the few hours he had to keep his hands to himself — until they have to pull apart to cool off. Aaron remains with his back against the door while Hamilton paces for a moment, before reaching into his jacket and handing an envelope to him.

“I intended to give this to you sooner,” Hamilton says, “but I was. Uh. Distracted.”

Hamilton probably wanted to delay it, too. Aaron suspects the letter is from Eliza. It says _Aaron_ on the front and she’s one of the few who call him by his given name, and the neat handwriting seems like her, somehow. He turns the envelope over to see an unbroken seal.

“She wanted to make sure I wouldn’t peek,” Hamilton says. He shifts on his feet, like an anxious child awaiting a gift — or punishment. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

Aaron sits as he opens it, and Hamilton stands behind him to peer over his shoulder. He reminds Hamilton that it’s addressed to him, but it goes unheard as Hamilton puts on his glasses.

He figures Hamilton would weasel the contents out of him anyway, so he gives up trying to hide it. The letter is short, only a couple lines long. He feels Hamilton’s anxious breath against his neck as he reads. 

 

 

 

> _It’s time that you and Alexander submit to your feelings. I am not stupid. I know it’s more than just a desire for each other. Work out those frustrations until it turns into compassion. Do what feels right. It’s okay. I trust both of you. As long as he comes back — and you do, too._

“Best of wives,” Hamilton says. He kisses Aaron’s jawline. “She’s so very understanding of my needs.”

Aaron laughs. He’ll have to thank Eliza later. She’s awfully perceptive of her husband, and as an afterthought, he thinks, _and me too._

“We did come to an understanding last night,” Aaron says, then adds, “ _and_ this morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“But I don’t think we’ve worked through all our frustrations yet, have we?”

Hamilton’s smile against his skin is marvelous. “We have a lot of issues to sort through,” Hamilton says, mumbling against Aaron. Kissing again, this time nipping with his teeth. “I think many repetitions are necessary.”

Aaron plans to. Having Hamilton naked in his bed, again and again, and he has permission — _encouragement —_ from Eliza to do so. If possible, it makes it more arousing.

“Although, it would have been nice to have read this before we went to bed together,” Aaron says.

“You would have fucked me anyway.”

Aaron’s face heats at the description of _fucked_ , but yes, that’s what he and Hamilton are doing now. He says, “You’re right.”

Hamilton laughs, and there’s another one of those addicting kisses. “You have no morals when it comes to sex.”

He’d like to exercise that lack of morals now, pulling Hamilton around so he can kiss him properly instead of the teasing that Hamilton has been doing, but Hamilton puts a hand to his chest, stopping him. Hamilton is fidgety again and it worries Aaron — did he do something wrong? When he’s almost brave enough to ask, Hamilton reaches inside his jacket again.

“There’s this too,” Hamilton says, and he gives him another letter. He fidgets more.

Hamilton’s voice wavers slightly when he says it, and Aaron tries to understand why. The letter is unmarked but he immediately knows it’s from Theo — he breaks the seal and thankfully, Hamilton has enough sense to go find something else to occupy himself.

Aaron wonders what Theo could have to say that she couldn’t in one of her previous letters. What could be so urgent that she couldn’t send it in the mail? What is that turned something as joyous as her letters into something of foreboding?

 

 

 

 

> _I could only send this by reliable carrier to be hand-delivered because I needed the assurance that it wouldn’t exchange hands with another than the intended. Yes, mister Hamilton is reliable, and against my better judgment, I trust him. He has proved himself worthy of a chance — which I hope you will do as well, Papa. But I did not have any other choice, as I could not keep this from you any longer._
> 
> _I know you do not care for prevarication, so I will be forthright: I am in love with Angelica Hamilton._

Aaron reads it again, thinking he misread it and that it’s the junior Alexander that Theo claims to be in love with, but the name of the eldest Hamilton daughter is there in Theo’s careful handwriting.

 _(in love_ )

He reads the rest in a rush, each word compounding on the next — _almost a year_ and _captured my heart_ and _we’re lovers_ and _she feels the same about me_ and _I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner but for once, I was afraid of disappointing you._

It’s just like Theo to tell him when he couldn’t have a proper conversation with her. He wishes he could tell her that she could _never_ disappoint him, and he wishes to kiss her forehead, and he wishes to listen to her talk about her first love, because first loves always are the sweetest.

And he wishes he were with her so he could ask her — how? _Why?_ Why is she in love with another woman — she isn’t fucked up like him, not prone to irregularity. She and Angie Hamilton aren’t like their fathers.

Hamilton has been remarkably quiet, flipping through the newly borrowed books and looking out the single window. Aaron supposes that Hamilton knows the contents of the letter, because he isn’t trying to read over his shoulder and because he looked so _so_ serious when he gave it to him. Hamilton purposely withheld it, carrying it around in his pocket until it was too heavy to bear.

So many secrets…

“She’s happy,” Hamilton says from his place at the window.   “Theo, I mean. She told me she was happy, and she seemed to be. Except for her father being a runaway idiot.”

“She discussed her personal matters with you?” It’s difficult to believe that his daughter, a true-bred Burr, would converse about personal matters with Hamilton.

Hamilton nods. “She had nobody else to tell, and she knew that I’d be open-minded since—” He waves between the two of them. “Us.” He clears his throat. “They’re like us.”

“They aren’t like us,” Aaron says. “We fuck women.”

Hamilton lets out an irritated huff. “That’s exactly what Eliza said. Well, she didn’t say _fuck,_ but the sentiment was the same.” He crosses the room, closing the distance between them. Gets close, too close. “You should know more than anyone that you can’t help who you’re attracted to.”

“It’ll pass,” Aaron says. “It’s just a curiosity thing.”

“Do you think this thing with us will pass?” Hamilton asks, quiet, steady, sure. He brushes his lips against Aaron’s, just enough for Aaron to lean into him, but Hamilton pulls back, teasing. “We tried, didn’t we? A year of denying ourselves but we still ended up lying together.”

“Alexander.”

“ _God,_ I love how you say my name. You still want me, don’t you? I’m not a passing fascination for you—”

“ _Alex._ ”

“ _Burr._ ”

Hamilton says it challenging, brightly smiling like he’s enjoying the argument. That’s typical Hamilton — being difficult because it’s more fun to be contrary. It’s overwhelming, almost, when Hamilton argues. As if he’s afraid someone will dispute his brilliance. So, he overcompensates to protect himself. Like an angry, bitey animal. Hamilton has always been like this, even when they were young…especially when they were young.

Aaron realizes that Hamilton is beautiful like this. Impassioned. Resolute. Vulnerable. Hamilton is as beautiful as the first day Aaron saw him. Or, the first time Hamilton saw him, because Hamilton sought him out. Some would say they were meant to be.

 

* * *

 

They don’t fight. Hamilton spends the afternoon reading weeks-old newspapers, catching up on news he missed while trapped on a ship. Every so often, he curses and mutters to himself, as though he finds it objectionable that the world didn’t completely stop while he was away.

Aaron has to force himself not to watch him. He sits across the table in the chair he dragged upstairs from the main room. He intended to work with Hamilton, but all he’s done is write a little in his journal and smoke. But it’s not like he has anything else to do.

Hamilton coughs and wrinkles his nose, looking up to scowl at him. Aaron smiles around his cigar and blows smoke in Hamilton’s direction.

“Jerk,” Hamilton says around the haze of smoke.

“Asshole,” Aaron replies, because he isn’t feeling any sympathy for Hamilton. Earlier, Hamilton thought it was _hilarious_ when Aaron told him that the scorch mark on the table is from when he accidentally set his shirtsleeve on fire, and then Hamilton laughed until he cried when he told him it happened while trying to light a candle.

Hamilton harrumphs, and holds the paper up to block Aaron from looking at him. He behaves like such a child, sometimes.

Aaron smiles, and goes back to his journal. He has a lot to write about.

_A certain Creole visited my room in the middle of the night. Talked too much but went quiet when I had my hands on him. Interesting. Was the same when repeated while he was in the bath this morning. Surprisingly giving in return; came twice, once in the twilight hour and then in the referenced morning. It’s a different kind of enjoyment, and very much worth repeating. The Creole is in agreement, no matter how argumentative he is. His good looks make up for it. Attractive, dark-haired; hair color matches down below._

Aaron tries to keep a straight face while the object of his writing sits across from him. He has been thinking of his entry about Hamilton all morning. It’s a habit to record about his sexual conquests. It’s nice to look back and relive them, and it amuses Theo when he gives her excerpts. Sex is _good._ He has no shame about it, or how much he has.

And he’s not ashamed about having sex with Hamilton.

Or wanting to have sex with Hamilton.

He isn’t.

He shuts his journal, and very carefully pushes back his chair, walks over to Hamilton. The stubborn Creole still holds the newspaper up, but Aaron pushes it down. Hamilton looks cross for only a moment, but then his expression softens — the lines between his brows vanishing, eyes clearing from stormy dark, mouth tugging into a half-grin — like he can’t bother to be angry with Aaron.

“Hi,” Hamilton says, smiling. Aaron can never tire of this smile, this one that’s all for him. Because of him.

It’s so much better than the scowls he caused Hamilton. He remembers those on Hamilton just as clearly. The one on a New Jersey shore finds its way into his dreams quite often.

But Hamilton smiles at him, now. That’s what matters.

“Hi.” Aaron tugs at the end of the ribbon in Hamilton’s hair, and the neat ponytail falls out. Hamilton shakes his head so his raven-dark hair falls around his shoulders. It’s got a kink from being tied up when wet, but it’s still thick and elegant and beautiful. Aaron runs his hand over Hamilton’s head, smoothing it down the flyaway hairs. Hamilton makes a contented, humming sound.

“Hi,” Hamilton says, again. “May I ask what you’re doing, Aaron Burr?”

Aaron isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he’s afraid that if he questioned it, he’d stop. Impulses are the best thing when dealing with Hamilton. That’s how it’s always been. Impulses got them _hurt_ — Hamilton with a gunshot wound in his torso, and Aaron damaged in a different kind of way — but impulses are also an introduction to a stranger, or a first kiss.

Aaron takes Hamilton’s glasses off, folds the metal legs, and places them on the table. Hamilton blinks, adjusting. Aaron wonders how blurry the world is to Hamilton without his glasses. Aaron was blessed with perfect vision, so it’s hard to imagine when things aren’t etched into clarity.

Would it have made it easier to shoot Hamilton?

Or would it make it easier to kiss him?

Aaron puts his hand under Hamilton’s chin and tilts it up, puts his mouth to his. Easy enough. It’s becoming habitual.

Hamilton has no problem kissing Aaron, but he closes his eyes when he kisses. Aaron keeps his open, and sees how Hamilton’s eyelashes dust against his cheeks and how Hamilton’s lips search for his when he pulls away. If Aaron had trouble seeing, he wouldn’t be able to see just how devastatingly beautiful Hamilton is, and he comes to the conclusion that if he couldn’t see Hamilton perfectly — the good and the bad — then he’d rather not see him at all.

It’s easy to take off Hamilton’s fancy clothes, and it’s easy to let Hamilton take off his practical ones, and it’s easy to take Hamilton to bed. Neither of them speak — Hamilton tries to, but Aaron keeps kissing him and soon he’s too interested in rubbing his dick against Aaron to say anything, his mouth going slack and only letting out the occasional moan when Aaron touches him in responsive places.

They try to find a way to rub their dicks together, but it’s harder than imagined so they end up grinding in a desperate counter-rhythm against each other. The bed squeaks, springs tired. Hamilton’s fingernails dig sharp half-moons into Aaron’s arm and Hamilton’s mouth is hot against Aaron’s clavicle as he tries to move against Aaron in the most satisfying way. Aaron grabs Hamilton’s ass, holding him still as he grinds into the fleshiest part of Hamilton’s hip. His ass feels nice in his hand, and he squeezes at the roundness of it experimentally. Hamilton growls a complaint, not getting any friction other than his cock pressing into Aaron’s stomach, but he pushes his ass back against Aaron’s hand, as though asking for him to do it again.

Aaron is content to finish like this, the two of them rutting against each other to get off, but Hamilton is greedy. Hamilton hooks his leg around Aaron’s waist, rolls over so Aaron is on top of him. The position is different, lying between Hamilton’s spread legs — one still wrapped around him — and Hamilton under him. It’s more sexual than what they’ve done. Everything is exploratory, give and take, and Hamilton is being…careful? But Aaron doesn’t want him to be careful, he wants him to do something about this fire that he’s ignited within him—

He thrusts, his cock sliding on Hamilton’s stomach, but Hamilton closes his eyes and shakes his head. Aaron wonders if this is too much for Hamilton — he’d understand if it is, because it’s almost too much for himself — but then Hamilton reaches down between them and takes both of their cocks in his confident, searching hands. The man does have great ideas sometimes, like federal banks or the best way to make Aaron come undone. Those clever hands do wonderful things — Aaron makes a noise he’ll be ashamed of later, and he has to close his eyes for a moment because he nearly comes at the feeling of Hamilton’s cock hard and thick pressed next to his, but then Hamilton — impatient — strokes them together, firmly from the tip down to the base then back up again. Brilliant man, with wonderful hands and ideas.

When Aaron dares to open his eyes, Hamilton has that ravenous look that makes Aaron want him even more and satisfy that hunger. He thrusts into Hamilton’s hand, matching the rhythm that Hamilton strokes them. Hamilton stops, keeping a tight grip around them as Aaron fucks into his hand, their cocks slick because they’re both so damn turned on. Aaron feels Hamilton’s cock twitch against his, and then his mimics it, traitorous. Wonderful. Slick drips over Hamilton’s hands, but he doesn’t know whose it is. Probably both of theirs mixed together. Hamilton starts working his hand on them again, thumb taking turns to rub at them, pausing only to toss sweaty hair out of his face, then touches them just right and they come right after each other — Hamilton first, then Aaron following — sticky onto Hamilton’s stomach.

The heat evaporates when they can think. Aaron rolls onto his back while Hamilton lies there, lax.   Aaron has discovered that Hamilton gets rather lazy after sex. He feels bad for Eliza, imagining Hamilton pounding out an orgasm, then falling asleep before getting her off (although, he knows that isn’t true because he’s heard them having sex and Eliza can be expressive of her pleasure). But Hamilton sits up, reaches onto the floor to get his handkerchief from his discarded coat, cleans their mess off of himself, and then throws it back to the floor before snuggling up to Aaron, laying his head on his chest.

“Aaron Burr.” Hamilton has no right to be this _cute_ — face glowing post-coitus, playful tone to his voice, whimsically running his fingers against the hair on Aaron’s chest. “Have I told you that I missed you?”

“I think so.” He has told him, but Aaron doesn’t mind hearing it again.

“Hmm. Well — I missed you, Aaron Burr.” Hamilton squirms against him, getting comfortable. “Oh. Did I tell you? I renamed your cat to _Aaron Purr._ ”

“That’s a terrible name.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left me,” Hamilton says, but he isn’t upset. He kisses Aaron’s jaw and wraps his arm around Aaron’s middle, drawing him closer and then sighs, like he’s pleased.

This, perhaps, is the most confusing thing to Aaron. Hamilton is _clingy,_ snuggly and affectionate after orgasm. All his edges softened, and he’s the happiest he’s ever been in regards to him. For some reason, it makes Aaron mad — because for thirty years, Hamilton has been argumentative and snobbish and absolutely maddening to deal with, but suddenly he’s the most open he’s ever been to him when his dick gets a little attention?

Aaron could shoot him again.

Instead, he kisses him.

“You like me, Aaron Burr,” Hamilton says, between kisses. Aaron wishes he’d be quiet. “You like me, don’t you? Burr?”

“Mostly,” Aaron mumbles against Hamilton’s cheek. “But it’s amazing how that feeling dissipates.”

“ _Burr._ ”

Aaron could keep on, but he doesn’t really feel like teasing Hamilton. Not now.

“Yes,” he says. “I like you, Alexander Hamilton.”

Hamilton makes a smug sound, like he always knew that Aaron couldn’t resist him.

“It took you long enough,” Hamilton says, sleepily, already half-dozing.

Aaron doesn’t find a reason to argue; instead, he leans his head against Hamilton’s, and rests.

 

* * *

 

They fade in and out of a nap until Hamilton decides they’ve had enough — yes, deciding for both of them — and crawls out of bed, ready to do something else. He puts on his shirt and sits at the desk while Aaron opts for the modesty of breeches and finishes his cigar. Hamilton doesn’t complain about the smoke, but he begs paper and pen and ink from Aaron, who has only a moment of hesitation before he hands them over. Right away, Hamilton begins scribbling — Aaron cringes when he presses too hard with the quill on the paper, he’ll break it — but Aaron decides it’s worth it.

Writing is like air to Hamilton, and Aaron likes to watch him breathe.

Aaron wonders if Hamilton knows that he’s so taken with him.

He hopes that remains a secret. Hamilton would be intolerably insufferable if he knew. He would probably have to kill him.

He re-reads his letter from Theo. It’s very to-the-point, like her (like him), but her sentimentalism shines through when she speaks of Angie Hamilton. He tries to read between the lines to see what’s unwritten, but it’s too secretive, her telling only what she wants him to know. She’s too much like him, in that way.

Aaron puts the letter down, and rubs his forehead, like he could make himself forget how much he misses her, and then looks across the table at his own A-dot-Ham—

—who has been staring at him for quite some time.

Hamilton flushes across his cheeks when their eyes meet, and isn’t that lovely? That he’s just as bashful and shy with this new element to their relationship. But Hamilton is stubborn and doesn’t drop his gaze, and Aaron cannot look away — captured.

Perhaps it is more than just a desire — something born within them and carried in their blood and part of their being. It has to be, because he can’t think of his child’s affections for her lover to be something nasty, so that means that he and Hamilton…

His affection for Hamilton isn’t a surprise. It’s a truth that’s developed for some time in his awareness, now brought to the surface. Like a plant sprouting from its roots, and the only way to rid of it would be to rip it from the dirt so nothing else could grow.

Love isn’t ugly. What he has with Hamilton can’t be bad, but it isn’t the same as what their daughters have. He doesn’t love Hamilton — but it’s not just lust, either. It’s somewhere in the middle, undefined.

 

* * *

 

It takes a few days for Aaron to adjust Hamilton being a part of his London life. He spends all day with Hamilton, and all night, too — there’s nothing else for Hamilton to do, so he insists on being with him. _I left home for you_ , Hamilton tells him, more than once, and Aaron figures that he should make the best of Hamilton’s time and attention.

But the truth is: he’s used to Hamilton. He’s used to reading the paper in the morning with Hamilton, he’s used to Hamilton’s cold feet finding his in bed, he’s used to standing in front of the mirror to shave with him. He’s used to the weight of Hamilton holding onto him for support when they retire upstairs after an evening out. He’s used to waking up in the middle of the night to see Hamilton drooling on his pillow, and he’s used to how Hamilton clings to him in bed when it’s storming and he’s used to how Hamilton pretends he’s fine. There’s something comforting about something he’s used to. Hamilton must feel the same, because he’s also used to the way Hamilton glares at him when he flirts with women, like he’s _his_ only — but these instances usually lead to really great sex, so he doesn’t mind.

Sex with Hamilton is really good. Really _really_ good. Aaron thought his desire would fade, like it had for most of his liaisons. He thought that he’d lose interest, or Hamilton would. But his hands are just as sure the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and so on — and Hamilton doesn’t show any signs of stopping, either. Each time is better, and the more they get to know how their bodies work together, he's reassured that it is what he wants.

Aaron suspects that Hamilton has been intimate with men before, based on how self-assured he is about all of this, but Aaron doesn’t dare ask. He doesn’t care. _He_ has Hamilton in his bed, waking him up with his hand on his cock and his mouth at the pulse at his neck. It’s _him_ who Hamilton chose to cross the Atlantic for.

They haven’t done much other than lie around and fuck. Hamilton is particularly found of morning sex, pressing his hardness against Aaron as a wake-up call, like the first thing he must do in his day is cater to him. Hamilton also sees arguing as foreplay — one rainy afternoon, they were fighting about something and Aaron doesn’t even remember what about, but they argued for hours until Aaron had had _enough_ and he pushed Hamilton to the bed and climbed on top of him and kissed him to shut him up, which somehow led to them jerking each other off. It was fucking unbelievable, and since then, Aaron doesn’t mind riling Hamilton up a bit. Then there was an instance when Hamilton finally convinced Aaron to play with his balls while he brought him off and Hamilton made such a loud noise that Aaron was sure everyone in the inn heard them. And then there was when they got so drunk all they could do was hump each other until they came, and they fell asleep like that, sticky and limbs tangled.

And like now: midday with the window wide open as Hamilton kisses down Aaron’s body, running his hand over Aaron’s length every so often. Hamilton is being agonizingly slow for how eager he was to take Aaron to bed — he interrupted Aaron’s chess game with the sad woman who’s a good lay to whisper in his ear, _I want you naked in bed within the next ten minutes_ — but Aaron knows that Hamilton can’t hold out for too much more. He’s too intemperate, no self-control.

Aaron is fine to wait until Hamilton gives in, and he doesn’t think much of what Hamilton is doing but then Hamilton is down between his legs and kissing Aaron’s hipbones, left then the right, then right below his belly button — dangerously close to something else. Aaron looks down the line of his body to see Hamilton staring at his cock that’s standing straight up in front of his face, but then Hamilton notices Aaron’s looking at him and it’s too late to pretend he wasn’t.

“Um. Could I blow you?” Hamilton asks. He has a pretty blush spreading across his cheeks and he licks his lips, like he’s hungry for it. Aaron feels his warm breath on him and that’s really nice but he’s kind of speechless at the very _thought_ of Hamilton’s mouth on him, let alone Hamilton eager to do it…

Too long passes, and Hamilton actually sounds disappointed when he says, “Never mind,” and starts to move his hand on him, no no no—

“Yes,” Aaron says, and then adds, “Please,” because he has thought of Hamilton sucking him — he’s thought of Hamilton’s lips and his talented tongue, and he’s imagined that since his mouth is good at talking and kissing it’s probably good at other things, too.

And Hamilton definitely _is_ good at other things _._ Hamilton doesn’t delay when given permission. He wraps his hand around Aaron’s aching cock and licks flat over the head and, _goddamn,_ Hamilton is too good. He hates him. He hates Hamilton so goddamn much that he can’t look away when Hamilton draws his tongue back inside his mouth, moaning at the first taste of him, and he hates how Hamilton licks his length base to tip and asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Aaron says, because he can’t manage much else at the moment, not with Hamilton grinning wolfishly at him with his lips wet and shiny. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard, and he’s leaking enough for Hamilton to pump him easily with one hand and pull the foreskin back to reveal the slick glands. Hamilton makes a sound like he’s pleased, and those sounds amplify when he licks the precome from the tip.

“Your cock is amazing,” Hamilton murmurs. “You taste as good as I imagined.” He licks Aaron again, swirling his tongue around the ridge. “Mmm. Better than I imagined.”

“You’re talking too much.”

Hamilton laughs, good-natured. He hums like he’s admiring his cock, and then turns his head to kiss it.

“Then I’ll use my mouth in another way,” Hamilton says, and then he takes Aaron into his mouth. He only has the head resting on his tongue but Aaron has to twist the sheets in his hands so he doesn’t blow his load because it’s wet and warm and wonderful. Hamilton is wonderful, especially how he closes his eyes and sucks and slowly lowers his mouth onto his cock, taking his time.

Hamilton is very good at this. He knows what to do with his teeth, and he knows how to keep Aaron on the edge to make it last — once again, Aaron thinks that Hamilton has experience with this, or maybe it’s just that he’s had it done to him a lot. Whatever it is, it seems like he’s enjoying it, too. He wraps his hand around the base, holding it while he pulls off, running his tongue along the underside, and then taking him back inside. His hair falls forward, tickling Aaron’s thighs, and without thinking Aaron reaches down to run his hand through the dark locks. Hamilton lets out a muffled groan that Aaron feels reverberate around his cock, so Aaron does it again, carding through his beautiful hair, massaging at the scalp and wrapping strands around his fingers and giving a gentle tug from the roots.

Hamilton lets his cock fall from his mouth, says, “oh god, _fuck_ , Burr,” his voice raspy, and then goes back down again, concentrating sucking at the head while he quickly strokes what he doesn’t have in his mouth.

It’s horrible that Hamilton is attractive, even like this, with spit running out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin, red-faced, his mouth full. Aaron feels his peak on-coming too soon, but he can’t help it, not with how Hamilton is trying to grind into the mattress and how he takes a bit more of Aaron’s length into his mouth. Hamilton’s lips stretched around his cock is probably the most obscene thing he’s ever seen, and he knows that he’s ruined forever. He cannot pretend it isn’t Hamilton doing this — the scratch of his beard against sensitive bits feels amazing, and only Hamilton’s wicked mouth could do the things it’s doing—

It finishes before he can enjoy it happening — Hamilton rubs his tongue at him and then it’s too _good_ and Aaron shuts his eyes and gives a strangled warning of, _“Alex,”_ but Hamilton keeps his head down and Aaron feels him swallowing around him as he comes in his mouth. Hamilton actually _moans,_ sucking and licking, making all sorts of wet sounds in the too-quiet room, and he covers Aaron’s cock in strokes of his tongue until Aaron has to push him away because he’s too sensitive.

Aaron is a little afraid of what comes next — now that they’ve crossed another line — but Hamilton crawls up to lie next to him like nothing has changed. He kisses Aaron sloppily and gets slick all over Aaron’s chin. _He did that on purpose_ , Aaron thinks, but he kisses him back anyway. It’s not the first time he’s tasted himself on another, and it’s extra nice on Hamilton.

He puts his hand on Hamilton’s hip, feels his cock jut against him, demanding attention.

“You don’t have to.” Hamilton swallows. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, awkwardly, like he very much wants it but is being sincere. Aaron had been basking in the afterglow too much to consider that — putting his mouth on Hamilton — but now he can’t stop thinking of it. He wants to, he _thinks_ he wants to, but he’s afraid of not being as good or that he wouldn’t like it, and he feels disgusting and sticky now that he’s had his need sated and—

“Just touch me,” Hamilton says, quiet, and he guides Aaron’s hand to him. Aaron is comfortable with this, he can do this, he likes this — he wraps one hand around Hamilton’s cock and fists the other in his hair, keeps him close to Hamilton as he whimpers against his neck.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton falters when he gets a letter from home.

He secludes himself in the corner of their small room to read it. Aaron keeps his distance, not sure how to interact — Hamilton has that expression he gets that’s a cross between joyous and weepy. Emotions are still a curious intimacy between them, not knowing how much is _too_ much.

But he can’t leave Hamilton alone, not when he looks so damn sad. He goes over to Hamilton, leans down to kiss his forehead where he’s wearing his worry the most. He puts his hand to Hamilton’s cheek, rubbing his thumb on the rough patch of stubble on his jaw that he missed shaving. Hamilton mumbles, “Burr,” and drops the letter to his lap, and puts his hand on top of Aaron’s while turning his head just enough to kiss Aaron’s palm.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asks. Hamilton doesn’t respond, he just stands and takes pulls Aaron to their ( _their_ ) bed. He walks slow, unsteady — hindered without his cane and incapacitated with his emotions. He tugs at Aaron’s sleeve, a silent request for him to undress, asks, “Please,” and he doesn’t often ask nicely for anything so Aaron gives him what he needs.

They don’t fuck that evening. Instead they change into their nightshirts and lie together, like spoons — Hamilton’s back to Aaron’s front. Aaron kisses Hamilton’s neck and listens while Hamilton tells him the update from his family. They all miss him terribly, Phil lost his first baby tooth and he didn’t cry at all, Angie and Theo spend even more time together, Al started to study for the bar, Rita is growing every day, Eliza prays that they are getting along—

—and that night, Hamilton dreams.

He often dreams, waking Aaron up with sleep mutterings and twitching, but this is something worse. It’s almost wakeful, clutching at Aaron’s shirt and his eyes are wet with tears as he tries to speak, spilling his worries out.

“How could I leave them, I left my family, what if they think I don’t love them? What if something horrible happens to them and I never see them again? People I love always leave me and die, I’m a curse, oh god, what have I done—”

“It’ll be okay,” Aaron says, even though he can’t promise it. Hamilton’s breath hitches and another sob or two escapes but Aaron kisses him and pets his hair and holds him dear.

“I’m a terrible father,” Hamilton says, “and I’m a bad husband, and you hate me too, don’t you?”

“Never.”

“But you did? How can I know if you hate me now? I can never tell with you.”

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Aaron kisses him, feather-light. “I could never hate my Alex.”

“Your Alex?”

“My Alex.”

Hamilton falls back to sleep, eventually — mostly from panicking himself into exhaustion — but Aaron doesn’t doze off until the sun begins to rise over the horizon, shining through the single filthy window in the room.

The first light of the day falls on Hamilton. He shines brighter than the sun, and Aaron is thoroughly lost for him.

 

* * *

 

He sleeps for only an hour or so, waking up too hot with Hamilton half-laying on him. Hamilton, who looks too peaceful in his sleep, who makes Aaron’s heart do somersaults, who Aaron can’t imagine leaving again.

So, he leaves him. He gets out of bed, leaving Hamilton to seek his warmth that’s no longer there. For a moment, Aaron thinks Hamilton will wake up — he turns over and mutters something — but he settles back into sleep. Aaron leaves him tangled in the blankets.

He goes downstairs and swears he’ll fuck the first woman he sees, and it happens to be the whore of the inn. He throws money on the table and she looks up to him and grins.

“It’s been a while,” Michelle says, because he does know her name, he’s on a first-name basis with all his favorite whores. She takes her time counting the coins as she continues, “I thought that you forgot about me.”

Aaron remains inscrutable, or so he thinks. “I fuck other people, too.”

She stands, and says in his ear, “Like _Alex_?”

“Don’t talk to me about him,” he says, and they go to her room, because Hamilton occupies the bed in his, and he gets his money’s worth. She doesn’t talk about Hamilton or anything else.

He gets off just fine. He had been concerned, for a moment. He likes sliding into her wetness and he likes her perky breasts, but it isn’t entirely fulfilling. Probably because he keeps thinking about rubbing his cock against Hamilton’s, and Hamilton’s perfect mouth on his.

When he’s done, he stays in her room and smokes because he doesn’t want to go back to his room to face Hamilton just yet. If he’s lucky, Hamilton wouldn’t have moved from bed and Aaron could pretend he stepped out only for a short while. He could go get Hamilton some breakfast to make it more convincing, but he spent all the money he had in his pocket on sex and he’d have to go back to the room anyway to get more.

He watches Michelle brush her hair and get dressed in a low-cut red dress that shows off her tits. She notices him looking, and smiles — that practiced smile, the one she uses to seduce.

“This isn’t for you, Edwards.” She grabs a bottle off her table, dabs something on her lips to color them red to match her dress. “Go back to your pretty man.”

“He isn’t _mine_ ,” Aaron says.

It isn’t until after she’s shut the door behind him that he realizes he didn’t deny that Hamilton is pretty.

 

* * *

 

Luck is never on his side — Hamilton is awake when he comes back to their room. Hamilton is sitting in the chair, fully dressed, legs crossed, making the impression that he’s been waiting for a while.

Aaron takes off his coat, puts it in the wardrobe in the small amount of space allotted to him. He frowns when he sees that Hamilton has taken over more than half of it with his clothes. How symbolic.

“Where were you?”

Aaron shuts the wardrobe, and says to it, “I went out for a walk.” He turns to face Hamilton. “So?”

There’s a glint in Hamilton’s eyes that Aaron knows too well — like he knows something he doesn’t.

“Interesting,” Hamilton says. “Because I went downstairs when I woke up to an empty bed. You were nowhere to be found, but Robert told me I’d be able to find you in the whore’s den.”

“Who’s Robert?”

“The old blind man.   You know, he sees everything — shit, that’s kind of insensitive.” Hamilton shakes his head. “Stop distracting from my point.”

“Which is?”

“You can’t even go one night without getting off,” Hamilton says. He waves a hand at Aaron. “Clearly, the only thing you care about is your dick.”

“It’s not _like_ that,” he says, and he’s aware of his voice rising. Hamilton is trying to start this fight — and he’s succeeding.

“It is.” Hamilton uses the arm of the chair to stand. His hand goes to his side as he does; if it’s real pain or an act to make Aaron feel bad, who knows. His voice matches Aaron’s as he continues his take-down. “You’re an uncaring son of a bitch, who left me in bed when you _knew_ I was upset and I needed you.”

“Don’t be such an entitled idiot,” Aaron says, aiming for blasé because he can’t really think of Hamilton’s sadness — it’s suffocating, making him feel guilty even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“Entitled?” Hamilton says, nearly shrieking. Aaron shushes at him to be quiet but Hamilton goes on, “It’s not entitled to want the guy I’m sleeping with to pay attention to me!”

Aaron grabs him by the lapels and kisses him — he has to silence him somehow because Hamilton doesn’t think when he’s angry and he’s shouting their secrets too loud. Hamilton huffs but he kisses him back just as roughly, biting and trying to take control of it — but Aaron reins him in, and pulls back.

“Is this enough attention?” Aaron kisses him, gropes him through his breeches. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be like this, Burr. I know you care about me, but you can’t be bothered to try and have anything nice. You’d rather be miserable. You want to be treated badly, so that’s why you go to whores—”

“I go to whores because I can pay them not to talk, unlike you.”

“You’d like me to _talk less, smile more_ , huh?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for years.”

Hamilton goes to his knees, one at a time, swearing at his body. He runs his hands on the back of Aaron’s thighs and presses his face against Aaron’s crotch, which is getting stiff no matter how much Aaron wills it not to. Hamilton notices — he can probably smell Aaron’s arousal, Aaron doesn’t doubt his talents — and unbuttons the flap of Aaron’s breeches and untucks his shirt, and then takes out his cock.

“Is this what you want from me?” Hamilton asks. He maintains eye contact as he licks the shaft, getting Aaron wet. “You want me to suck your cock and never say anything? Keep me locked away in your room as your catamite?”

Aaron bites down on his lip to keep noises from escaping. Thickly, he says, “If it pleases you.”

He thinks it pleases Hamilton. It must, with the way Hamilton is slobbering on his cock. If people only knew how good of a cocksucker Alexander Hamilton is — how he gets on his knees and asks for it, moaning like his cock is the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Hamilton holds him in the curve of his hand, does something amazing with his tongue that makes Aaron’s legs tremble.

“Why don’t you ask me to be your whore?” Hamilton asks, hostile. “I learned from my mother — isn’t that what you think?”

Hamilton is hurt. He has a habit of lashing out when he’s emotional. He thinks he’s hiding behind his put-on anger, but it’s as transparent as a lake frozen over. He’s always been this way, even when he was young and was overflowing with anger with everything and everyone — the war, the bursar who wouldn’t let him over-enroll in classes, the people who judged his shabby clothes, himself for not being _enough._

Aaron tried to make him see that he didn’t need to be angry, but then he just became angry with him, too.

Aaron puts his hand in Hamilton’s hair, tugs a little harder than he’s done before when Hamilton has blown him — Hamilton likes a steady pressure at his head when he’s got cock in his mouth — but Aaron yanks on his gorgeous dark hair. If Hamilton wants to be rough, he’ll play that.

Hamilton lets out a vile string of curses, but then bites Aaron’s thigh, retaliating. Aaron wants to tell Hamilton that it doesn’t have to be this way — he could just apologize — but then he remembers that Hamilton doesn’t apologize. And he’s not even sure if Hamilton has done anything wrong. Perhaps _he_ could say he’s sorry, but he didn’t do anything wrong, either. He could say a lot of things to make this better, but that would require talking, which he doesn’t want to do, since it seems to make things worse.

Instead, he grabs Hamilton’s wrist, hauls him up. Hamilton still looks like he could spit fire and he opens his mouth to speak but Aaron kisses him, catching him by surprise. Hamilton struggles against him for a moment, like he won’t bear to be pacified so easily, but Aaron gently puts his hand at the nape of Hamilton’s neck and kisses him slow and sure, and Hamilton calms under his touch, melting against him.

They stumble to the bed, Hamilton falling on top of him. Aaron undoes Hamilton’s cravat and sucks at the place at his neck that makes him keen as he gets his breeches open and slips his hand inside. Hamilton is already hard when he puts his hand on him — he feels more than hears Hamilton gasp when he touches him. Shuddering like he’s been struck. Hamilton pushes into his hand, his own hand searching down between their bodies and their clothes to wrap his hand around Aaron’s cock.

“Is that all this relationship is to you?” Hamilton asks. “Just getting my hand on your dick?”

He shouldn’t, but Aaron laughs. “Didn’t you come to England with the express need to put your hand on my dick?”

Hamilton isn’t amused; he makes a disgruntled sound and squirms against Aaron, which kind of makes the situation worse because their hips rock against each other, sensitive areas creating a delicious friction. Aaron bucks his hips, seeking more, but Hamilton puts his hands on Aaron’s shoulders, holding him down.

“I didn’t come all the way to London for us to jerk each other off! I have emotions — I know that’s hard for you to understand because your veins run cold with ice,” Hamilton says. “It’s _uncomfortable_ and I need you to _fix_ it.”

“I’m not fixing _anything_ ,” Aaron growls, “and you’re a goddamn liar. If it were only emotions, you would have written it all in a thirty-page letter and mailed it to me.”

“You’re only worth a twenty-page letter, at most.”

“Oh, you’re horrible—”

And Hamilton kisses him, and again.

“Horrible,” Aaron says, “voluble, infuriating immigrant—”

“Dreadful, cruel, vicious plonk—”

Hamilton is smiling when he kisses Aaron. He lays on top of Aaron, his hair sweeping over his shoulders and falling forward around Aaron’s face like a curtain, like it’s hiding the two of them away from the world.

“You’re my plonk,” Aaron says, brushing Hamilton’s hair behind his ear, and oh, he likes him so _so_ much. He tries to fight it — falling for him — until he can barely remember anything that isn’t Hamilton’s mouth and hands on him.

 

* * *

 

They readjust their clothes — they attempted to undress but it was a monumental effort so they ended up jerking each other off with their breeches pushed down their thighs — and go downstairs. Hamilton has an extra spring in his step, hardly needing to hold onto the banister. Aaron smiles to himself, amused at what sex can do for the man. Heals his pains, rids him of his worries.

“What are you thinking about?” Hamilton asks. “It must be something nice to inspire a genuine Aaron Burr smile.” He’s slightly out of breath; they’re at the landing, and beyond the corner is the main room where there’s lunchtime chatter and other people, but for now, it’s just them.

Aaron thinks of telling him to _fuck off_ but he remembers they aren’t fighting anymore and that he likes Hamilton, even though he’s difficult and demands things like going to the French-style restaurant a few blocks away because they sculpt the butter to resemble miniature roses.

“I’m thinking of nothing in particular,” Aaron says. He reaches out, smoothing where Hamilton’s hair is sticking up from his just-had-sex look. “Just you.”

Hamilton blushes across his cheeks and honest-to-god _stammers._

“Oh, uh, well, then,” Hamilton says, and then he takes a quick glance left and right to make sure they’re alone before kissing Aaron on the mouth.

It’s nothing explicit, just a simple peck, closed-mouth — but it somehow feels more intimate than their make-outs.

Aaron is still numb from it when they enter the main room. Hamilton wanders over to pick a new book from the communal shelf, and Aaron sits next to the blind man. Robert. Whoever. All he can think of is Hamilton becoming inextricable from his life, and he’s okay with it, as long as Hamilton feels the same about him.

Robert turns his head towards him. “Hello, uncaring son of a bitch.”

Aaron tilts his head, confused, but then remembers Hamilton shouting those words to him an hour earlier. Oops.

“I didn’t know we were that loud,” Aaron says.

“The walls are thin. Everyone heard.”

Aaron grimaces. If they heard him and Hamilton arguing, then they probably heard…

“Don’t worry, things quieted down after the two of you stopped yelling,” Robert says. “I suppose you were busy doing something else.”

Aaron thinks of Hamilton on his knees.

“Sure,” Aaron says. “Busy.”

The old man mutters something that sounds like, “I bet,” but it gets covered up by drinking from his glass. He offers his drink to Aaron, who declines. “Your loud friend was asking after you this morning. He seemed rather jealous when I told him you were having some puss for breakfast.”

Jealousy was one thing, but Hamilton was also hurt and upset and needy. “He was jealous he didn’t have any for himself,” Aaron says.

“What _else_ could he be jealous of?”

Aaron bites his lip. He isn’t being careful. Hamilton makes him stupid.

“You know, you don’t look well,” the man says.

Aaron furrows his brows. He doesn’t know what Robert is talking about. He’s fine, a little tired, but he had made sure he was presentable — then he realizes that Robert’s cloudy eyes aren’t pointed in his direction at all, not that he’d be able to see him if they were.

“That’s not funny,” Aaron says, but Robert laughs and throws back the rest of his drink.

“In all seriousness, you seem off. Distracted.”

Aaron glances across the room to Hamilton. He’s still here. Good. He still makes Aaron’s chest feel too _too_ tight. Not good.

“I’m having some trouble sleeping,” Aaron admits. It’s true. The last few nights he has laid awake for hours while a restless Hamilton slept next to him. Hamilton hasn’t had problems sleeping — he faces his dreams like he’s charging into battle. Aaron keeps watch for both of them, and when the sunlight breaks over the horizon he’s too tired to sleep when it’s safe.

“Is it because of the entitled idiot?” Robert asks.

Aaron is really glad the man can’t see how he’s looking at Hamilton.

“There’s nothing specific,” Aaron says, “just…”

 _Everything._ One moment he’s okay but then something catches like a hook inside him and it feels like he’s bleeding out but he can’t see where to stop the flow, and he gives up because he’s too tired to care.

The old man seems to understand, however.

“I have something for you.” Robert reaches in his pocket, hands a glass bottle out for Aaron.

Aaron reads the label. “Laudanum? Isn’t that opium?”

“Which is a great sleep aid,” Robert says. “A few drops and you’ll sleep like a log. You may not be able to get rid of your troubles, but this is the next best thing. It helps you deal with your troubles.”

Aaron isn’t so sure, but Hamilton is coming over to him, so he slips the bottle in his pocket and thanks Robert, and spends the rest of the day with Hamilton.

He actually has _fun_ with Hamilton. He doesn’t have that breathless feeling at all. They have a nice meal at the restaurant Hamilton picked out and he has to admit the butter is really neat, and after that they walk around the park like the two aging men they are, and then they take a break on a bench and debate if the pigeons are more vicious in London or New York.

It’s fine, until they’re settled against each other in their familiar way, body to body. Tonight: Hamilton faces Aaron with his arm thrown over his middle, sharing the same pillow with his face only a few inches away. This, of course, is after the pre-sex bickering, the sex, the after-argument sex, and then the after-sex bickering — when Hamilton is quiet and pleasant and close. Right there. His Alex.

Hamilton moves in his sleep. Mumbles, _“Burr,”_ and nestles closer. Hair falls in his face. On instinct Aaron brushes it away. Another one of those intimacies that have become too easy. Hamilton scrunches his nose and makes a sleepy snuffling sound, but he subsides back to a steady rest.

Aaron will never be able to sleep, and he so desperately wishes to join Hamilton.

So, he very carefully gets out of bed, making sure not to disturb his bedmate, takes the bottle from where he hid it in his coat, drops a dose on his tongue — four drops sounds about right, five for good measure. It’s bitter but he swallows it and chases it with water, and by the time he crawls back under the covers and Hamilton reclaims his hold on him, he feels himself getting drowsy…

 

* * *

 

The sun is well into the sky when Aaron wakes. He opens his eyes to see Hamilton fully dressed, fiddling with his hair in the mirror. He smiles on instinct upon seeing Hamilton, but then he groans because he feels groggy and his mouth is dry and his neck hurts from lying in one position all night long and he really has to pee but he doesn’t want to move just yet.

Hamilton looks over his shoulder when he hears Aaron.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Hamilton says. He finishes tying the ribbon in his hair with a flourish. He looks good with his hair back. It makes him look boyish, almost, if it weren’t for the twin gray streaks emanating from his temples. He walks the few steps over to the bed, pats Aaron’s shoulder. “You seemed to be resting well, so I let you be.”

“Thanks.” Aaron rubs his face. It’s too soon to tell if he feels more rested, but he didn’t stay awake all night questioning every mistake he’s ever made, so.

Hamilton leans over and kisses him on the forehead.

“C’mon, Burr. Time to start the day,” Hamilton says, and he’s already off, talking and talking, pulling the blanket away. Aaron grumbles, but drags himself out of bed before Hamilton does it himself. Hamilton is saying something about how they _need_ to go to this place that Murphy told him about but Aaron doesn’t even know who in the hell Murphy is, and Hamilton is crowding him and it’s too early for his enthusiasm, and Aaron threatens to piss on his shoes if he doesn’t get out of the way.

Surprisingly, Hamilton does as he asks. Hamilton gives him one of his _oh, Burr_ looks and then throws his head back and laughs — it’s nice to Aaron’s ears and it wakes him up better than a strong cup of coffee.

Maybe one day he’ll be used to the way Hamilton makes him feel; if not tomorrow, perhaps the day after. But he doesn’t know if he _wants_ to be used to it, because it almost feels as new, every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so annoyed at me lol I originally had two chapters planned but then I split those into four to make the chapters shorter but...this one still ended up as long as usual. lol.
> 
> Notes!  
> \- many thanks to bluecarrot for letting me borrow some perfect lines when we've discussed things, such as "come to London with express need to put your hand on my dick"  
> \- lots of things taken from Burr's Europe Adventures journals such as: setting himself on fire, writing about having sex which FYI he did write to Theo about, and taking laudanum for sleep. So.  
> \- it wasn't a thing to take the foreskin off penises back then so that's why I always write them having them. Woohoo for funnier and easier handjobs.  
> \- another musical reference: "if not tomorrow, perhaps the day after" is from Groundhog Day  
> \- now past 150k words! Okay.


	19. Alexander IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, part 2 (of four).
> 
> It's great with Burr, except when it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the plan to make these few chapters shorter so I could get them out quicker, but then this chapter ended up being one of the longest ones yet, coming in at around 17k words. So, my plan failed ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s great with Burr, except when it’s not.

Burr is the most pleasant he’s ever been. He’s surprisingly thoughtful of Alexander — he includes him in conversations, makes sure he’s covered with the blanket, lets him stand under his umbrella at the expense of getting rained on, kisses him the instant they are alone. He’s generous with his money, buying luxurious meals and plenty of alcohol and whatever he sees Alexander admiring in shops, like the silly trinket shaped like a glazed ham that they both thought was funny. He talks with Alexander for hours in bed, even when there’s no hope for them having another go that evening, and Burr touches Alexander like he _likes_ him, like he _wants_ him.

Alexander dares to say Burr is different since…since they’ve been together. Others have noticed too — the whore tells Alexander that he’s the only one who could warm Burr’s curmudgeonly heart. Alexander doesn’t think he’s so exclusive. He wishes he were, but he loves how Burr gives in so easily when he begs (like when he asked _please Burr please please let’s go see the botanical gardens_ ) or when Burr’s grumbling eventually turns into a content sigh when Alexander snuggles up to him in bed and puts an arm around his waist, pulling him closer and kissing his neck.

Alexander can really believe that Burr does care for him.

Most of the time, anyway.

With the affection, comes callousness. Burr can be really unpleasant to be around sometimes, and Alexander almost regrets coming to England. He makes the mistake of telling Burr this once in the heat of a fight — Burr throws a book in his direction, but luckily they are both drunk, so it goes sailing out the window instead; hours later they make up with their hands on each other and Alexander promises _I didn’t mean it, I would cross a thousand oceans to find you._

But — Burr is moody and mean, and Alexander receives the brunt of it. He accuses Alexander of bringing in bedbugs, which Alexander never notices but he thinks Burr just wants a reason to blame him for something. He shoves Alexander away when he tries to sit next to him in the main room, and he’ll ignore him for hours in favor of reading or drinking with another patron of the inn. It doesn’t do any good for Alexander to call him out on it, because then Burr is _meaner_ and will purposely not talk to him in the morning. Even if Alexander offers to suck his dick.

Alexander knows that Burr must’ve been lonely. He had Eliza back at home, but Burr had been alone — even though it was his fault. But Burr doesn’t want to talk about it. When Alexander asks, he says, _I had plenty of company_ , and Alexander replies, _not any you didn’t have to pay for_ , and they argue again until Alexander goes to his knees and Burr forgets what he’s angry about.

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” Alexander says, whispered against Burr’s back.   He thinks Burr didn’t hear him, or is in one of his moods where he’s ignoring him, but then Burr mumbles, “I’m not,” and then turns over and kisses Alexander with a confidence that leaves him breathless.

Alexander hopes that’s true — that Burr isn’t lonely with him.

 

* * *

 

The only time Burr is truly agreeable is when they’re fucking. He has yet to complain about Alexander’s mouth or hands on him, or Alexander’s dick rubbing against him, which he seems to like even though he’s never expressed such.

Burr likes sex, and Alexander likes sex — it’s one of the few things they agree on. Burr is probably the best lay Alexander has ever had. They know what they like and they are glad to satisfy each other, uninhibited and filthy, catching up on years of sexual tension. Alexander learns that the gossip about Burr being a skilled lover is true. He doesn’t do anything other than jerk Alexander off but it’s the _way_ he does it. A lot of what makes Burr good is how much Burr enjoys it. He’s gorgeous when he comes, swearing and toes curling and eyes squeezed shut — there’s a reason the French call it _la petite mort._ The little death.

Alexander wishes he could lay with Burr all day. Oh, if only they were younger…

But thankfully they’re both blessed with fortitude, and desire.

“You’re attracted to me,” Alexander says. They’re stripped down on top of the blankets, Burr on his back while Alexander teases Burr, running his fingers up his cock, then up his chest where there’s already a sheen of sweat. Burr grumbles a complaint, and Alexander moves his hand back down, saying, “You think I’m _sexy._ ”

There are no denying Burr’s lustful gazes at him, or his eagerness to put his hand in his breeches.

Or how his cock twitches in Alexander’s hand while he strokes him. Cock always tells the truth.

“It’s not quite the word I’d use,” Burr says, his breath hitching when Alexander squeezes around the base. “You’re handsome, I suppose. Based on what women have said about you.”

Alexander smiles. He _knows_ women talk about him. A handsome face, good build — it had been better in his youth, but he’s still got it — shapely legs, his _exotic_ background. Women have always been envious of Eliza, and his publication about his sex life didn’t discourage his sensual image, either.

“But what do _you_ think?” Alexander asks. He watches Burr look down his body, down to where his cock is hard against his belly, and when he looks back up he can’t meet his eyes. Burr is _embarrassed_ , and that makes Alexander want him even more.

“Tell me, Burr,” Alexander says, going from casually stroking to touching in a way he knows will get Burr there fast. “Do you think I’m good looking?”

Burr lets out a sound that’s halfway between a growl and a whine. Alexander leans in, lightly bites at Burr’s earlobe, demands, “Tell me.”

“Fine,” Burr says, breaking. He moans and pushes his hips forward into Alexander’s grip. “Yes, I think you’re handsome. You’re the prettiest boy in all of New York, _fuck_ —”

Alexander kisses him hard, their teeth knocking against each other and he feels Burr gasp, but he won’t stop, and a few tugs later Burr comes — he bites Alexander’s lip and Alexander tastes copper when Burr takes him in hand, talking filth in Alexander’s ear as Alexander shudders and spills over his hand no more than a minute later.

After, they lie in bed, sweaty bodies pressed up against each other. Burr is fussy, trying to inch away, but Alexander knows he isn’t going anywhere. He enjoys the afterglow too much.   In these moments, Burr is sweet, attentive. He runs his hand through Alexander’s hair as Alexander trails his fingers over his skin. Alexander shivers at the afternoon breezes coming in through the window, cooling his skin. Burr notices and pulls the blanket over them, and then arranges him so he can rest his head on his shoulder.

If it takes an occasional fight to have this, then it’s worth it.

Alexander is nearly soothed to sleep when Burr speaks.

“Do you really like men?”

Alexander laughs. “I think we’ve established that.”

“No, I mean…” Burr sighs, flustered. “Do you like cock?”

Ah, that.

“Oh, I like cock,” says Alexander airily. He reaches under the blanket and rubs Burr’s aforementioned part; Burr twitches, still too sensitive. “Generally. I’ve often sat in meetings and thought about the shape and size of the gentlemen sitting next to me. Fantasized about the color, the texture…” He licks his fingers, sucks two of them into his mouth, and then draws them out, dragging them against his tongue and smears saliva on his lip. “The taste.”

“You’re obscene.” That’s what Burr says, but he’s too interested in Alexander’s tongue sweeping around his fingers to be disgusted. Alexander settles back against Burr and wraps his arm across his middle.

“Hmm. We had meetings together, you know.” Alexander smirks when Burr realizes his meaning, letting out a soft, _oh_.

Mmm. Burr had been one of his favorite men to think about — he was well built and confident with his body, so it was reason to believe that he must’ve been well built down below, too. When they were working together, Alexander often thought about going to his knees and taking Burr in his mouth, or offering a different kind of _compromise_ when they had their disagreements.

“And?” Burr asks.

“I wasn’t disappointed.” Not at all. Burr has an excellent cock. Blessed with both a nice girth and length and it tastes good and Burr makes such wonderful sounds when it’s touched. Alexander couldn’t have asked for better.

Burr scoffs. “You really like sucking cock?” he asks, incredulous, like he hasn’t seen Alexander in near ecstasy with his cock in his mouth.

“I _love_ sucking cock,” Alexander replies. He loves giving head, he loves how men fill his mouth and how he has to concentrate, licking and sucking and testing how much he can take without choking. He loves how it makes his jaw ache and he loves how it makes a man weak and he loves salty warmth on his tongue. His mouth waters just thinking about it.

Burr considers that information. “I’m not the first man you’ve been with.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes.” Alexander assumes Burr has deduced as much. “There have been others.” No, that isn’t true. He corrects himself. “There was one other.”

“Oh.”

“It was a long time ago,” says Alexander, elaborating. “It feels like another life—”

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” says Burr, quiet. Alexander hears Burr’s heart beating faster in his chest despite the calm demeanor of his voice. “Forget I asked—”

“But you want to know, don’t you?” Alexander keeps this part of himself unseen, he doesn’t talk about it, not even with Eliza, not since… It’s better to pretend it didn’t happen because it hurts too much. But Burr somehow forces himself inside and for someone who says he likes him, he hurts him — they somehow keep doing that to each other.

“If it’s important to you,” says Burr, “then yes. I want to know.”

It is important to him. Was. Is.

“It was John Laurens.” A name he hasn’t spoken aloud in years, and thought about even less. There had been a time in his life when Laurens consumed his thoughts, but now he’s only a distant memory. He had mourned when the image of Laurens began to fade from his mind and his heart — he no longer remembered the exact pattern of his freckles or the melody of his laugh and his skin against his became a fantasy — but then he understood it as a blessing, forgetting, so he wouldn’t be haunted by the loss of what he could’ve never had, anyway.

His dearest Laurens. Darling, dearest, dead.

He tilts his head up to look at Burr, who isn’t surprised at all — he wears that same unexpressive face that betrays nothing.

He and Laurens weren’t exactly subtle back then, weren’t they? He smiles, thinking of the near misses where they had to fumble with their clothes when someone was outside their tent, the flirtatious letters they exchanged that he keeps hidden in the secret drawer of his desk, and he thinks of when Laurens rode out to South Carolina with the promise that when he returned they would celebrate because they would be together again—

“After he died, I didn’t take another man as a lover because I was married and I _loved_ him.” Alexander is crying — that’s a surprise, he never cried for him before, he had been too busy — but he’s crying, quick tears falling. “He wanted to die and I hated him for it but for a long time I wanted to follow him, but I didn’t die, and he left me—”

“Alex.”

Burr — he left him, too, but he promised he never would again. Alexander wishes he could believe him.

“I loved him,” Alexander says, “and then he died. That’s all.”

 _He was my first love_ , he doesn’t say.

He figures that Burr has something to say about it — embarrassed that Alexander has shown such a display of emotion, uncomfortable that he could _love_ another man, jealous that it wasn’t him.

But Burr doesn’t pursue it further. He probably doesn’t want to know. He looks as though he doesn’t want to know what he knows now, his expression stuck somewhere between pity and rattled — the truth is terrible, isn’t it? That’s fine. It’s something Alexander has carried with him, and will continue to do until he dies. Dies like his Laurens.

“Are you okay?” Burr rubs his thumb against Alexander’s cheek, wiping away tears shed. Kisses his forehead. Burr is gentle. _Caring._ Alexander never thought he’d have something like this with a man again. With Burr, never.

Alexander forces a smile, and kisses him back. “I’m fine. It’s just…I haven’t thought of him in a while.”

“Of course.” Burr says it in a way that sounds as though he doesn’t believe him, but then Alexander remembers that Burr knows what it feels like to lose your first love…

There’s pain in his eyes, too. Alexander wants to know his pain, but Burr is too damn closed off, and he knows better than to ask. He was stupid to volunteer his own, but he thought that if Burr knew, he would understand what this means to him…

This with Burr, it’s not like it was with Laurens. He doesn’t love Burr — he could, maybe — but Burr is different. He’s different like the rain in London, but Alexander gets more familiar with that every day, and he wishes for the rain to be unending.

 

* * *

 

Burr doesn’t have a problem sleeping anymore. Alexander remembers Burr’s restless nights when they were at home, and Burr stayed awake the first few nights when they were together again, but now he usually passes out before Alexander and sleeps late into the morning, too. It probably has to do with the booze and the sex. And probably the laudanum.

It’s definitely the laudanum.

At first, Burr had tried to hide what he was doing, but Alexander isn’t _stupid._ Burr lies about it for days until Alexander finds where he keeps the bottle. When confronted, Burr tells him it’s _no big deal_ , saying, “It helps me sleep.” Alexander says if that’s the case, then why did he lie about it, which starts an argument that ends with Burr saying:

“It makes you easier to deal with.”

Which starts another argument where they fight and call each other horrible names and Alexander is determined to stay angry, but Burr gives up and takes some of that medicine that turns him into a vapid lump that cares about nothing and goes to bed.

In a show of good faith that he isn’t a _selfish asshole_ — one of the many things Burr called him — Alexander gets into bed wearing his stockings along with his nightshirt. It’s uncomfortable and he isn’t that cold, but Burr always complains about his frigid feet touching his, so this is one sacrifice Alexander can make.

Even if they’re quarreling they end up pressed against each other because the bed is too small. Burr isn’t asleep yet. He lets out a short sigh when Alexander wiggles next to him as he tries to settle in. Alexander is trying to behave and do better but his foot brushes against Burr’s leg.

“Sorry.”

Burr looks over his shoulder. “Are you wearing stockings?” he asks, slurred — the opium already taking effect.

Alexander wiggles more, accidentally kneeing Burr in the butt.

“Yes,” Alexander says.   “You hate when my cold feet touch yours, so…” His voice trails off. He isn’t sure why he’s doing this exactly, not when Burr is so _mean_ to him and and and…

Burr turns over so he’s facing him, kisses him slow, leisurely. Pulls away, licking Alexander’s lip. He trails kisses down Alexander’s neck, sucking at the place that makes him keen, slips his fingers under Alexander’s stocking at his knee.

“I’ve grown used to your cold feet,” Burr mumbles. “I like them.”

Burr bites and sucks at that one place, and Alexander is very glad for high collars and he is aflame thinking that he’ll wear the purple bruise on his skin, put there by Burr, and _oh_ , Burr likes his stupid cold feet, he likes _him…_

“Take them off,” Burr says, commanding, and Alexander wastes no time to push the stockings down, tosses the blanket back to kick them to the floor — one, two — adjusts the blanket and puts his bare feet on Burr’s.

“Chilly.” Burr laughs, sloppily kissing Alexander on the mouth. “Hmm. I would offer to jerk you off but I’m sleepy.”

“I know.” Alexander wants to steal these last few moments with this Burr — kind, warm, and openly admitting that he likes him. Perhaps the drug isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

Burr runs his hand over Alexander’s thigh, slides under Alexander’s shirt and to his ass. “I like this, too,” Burr says and Alexander can’t help but laugh a little because Burr is definitely high. Burr doesn’t seem to notice, however, leaving his hand there as he kisses Alexander’s temple.

“You’ve got salt and pepper hair,” Burr says, eyeing the strands of gray mixed in with black. “Did you know you’ve got gray in your pubes, too? I noticed. Salt and pepper hair.”

“That’s the island spices in me,” Alexander replies, smiling. Burr is going to be _so_ embarrassed about this later, but knowing him, he won’t bring it up.

“You’ve got another spice I like,” Burr says. He squeezes Alexander’s ass, Alexander yelps in surprise — Burr is forward but never this much — and Burr puts his mouth to his and whispers, “Sugar.”

Alexander kisses him and kisses him and he gives Burr what he wants, sweet kisses and whispered _please_ and _yes_ and _more_ and Burr says, _my Alex_ , sighs happily, and then surrenders to sleep.

Alexander’s slumber doesn’t follow until hours later.

 

* * *

 

Burr refuses to get out of bed in the morning — the nice Burr is gone and replaced with a snarling monster who curses Alexander out and then turns his back to him and goes back to sleep. He doesn’t move even when Alexander jerks the blanket off of him, or when he offers to blow him.

Alexander decides _fuck it_. Burr can waste his day if he wants to. Alexander doesn’t need to depend on Burr. This is the first time he’s ever been on vacation, apart from his short honeymoon, and even then he had snuck away to write when Eliza was sleeping so he wouldn’t fall behind on his work. He’s going to enjoy himself.

He dresses, goes downstairs, sits at their usual table, orders breakfast, reads the paper while he waits. He frowns, realizing he misses Burr already — he misses talking about the news with him and he misses how Burr stirs his coffee and he misses how he can look across the table and he’s _there_.

Alexander folds the paper and throws it on the table in a huff. Goddamn that Aaron Burr.

It’s not long before it’s noted that he’s alone. Michelle walks over and takes Burr’s seat without asking. She smiles and looks at him the same way she looks at Burr — like she’s going to devour him whole.

He bites down on his fork so hard it vibrates in his skull.

Michelle is pleased. She knows the effect she has on men. It’s her job to make them titillated.

“Where’s your grumpy friend?” she asks. She leans forward and he’s too damn distracted by her cleavage to notice that she steals a piece of bacon off his plate until she’s chewing on it.

Alexander eats the remaining piece.

“He’s being a lazy ass and still in bed, sleeping.” Alexander eats his toast, too. It’s good toast. “You can go join him, if you want. Maybe he’d get up for you.”

She laughs. “Oh, you’re naughty,” the pun not going unappreciated, but Alexander’s face is hot when realizes he shouldn’t be having this conversation, and not just because of the topic.

He looks down at his coffee instead.

“Now you’re shy?” she asks.

“No.”

“You could have a go with me,” she says. “Edwards would pay for it.”

Alexander shakes his head. He continues to stare at his coffee. There are grounds at the bottom.

She reaches out and grabs his hand, running her thumb over his wedding ring. “Is this why you won’t?” she asks, low enough so only he can hear. “Or do you think your _friend_ would be upset if you fucked me?”

Alexander stands up, knocking the table and sending the dishes rattling, and jerks his hand away from her like he’s been burned.

“You don’t know anything about me,” says Alexander. “I’m not like that.”

“You aren’t?” She sits back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her skirt rises up and shows off her ankle. She’s wearing black stockings. “If you’re married, then why are you here, sharing a room with your _friend_ —”

“I’ve got to go,” he says, and he stumbles away, hobbles through the main room and up the stairs — he has to pause halfway because he’s out of breath and fighting tears—

He didn’t cheat on Eliza. The woman came on to him. He wouldn’t do that, not again. And he wouldn’t do that to Burr, even though Burr fucks around all the time. Burr. That’s different, that isn’t cheating — except it is, no matter what permission Eliza granted them. He lays with another and he was emotionally involved long before that. How could he leave her for Burr, who doesn’t love him — and he wavers on if Burr even cares for him or not. Burr says he does, but showing it is another thing. For as intimate as they’ve become, Burr has been remarkably distant — he blames the whores and the opium and the residual pains from when they’ve hurt each other. He worries that Burr has grown tired of him…

His nose is runny and his face wet with tears by the time he gets the door open. Burr doesn’t wake from the noise, or Alexander’s panicked sobs, or Alexander running into a chair because his vision is blurry.

Alexander watches Burr sleep for a moment — he’s peaceful, snoring slightly, and hasn’t moved since Alexander left him earlier. Burr, the burr in his side. Alexander could hate him, he really could, but he doesn’t, he can’t — he shakes him awake, saying, “Burr wake up please, I need you,” and he hates how desperate he sounds but it’s true, he needs him.

Burr wakes up slow, grumbling as he comes out of a deep sleep, but he sits up when he sees the state Alexander is in. The blanket falls to his lap and rubs his eyes and an imprint of a wrinkle from the pillowcase is on his cheek.

“What’s wrong?” Burr asks, alarmed. “Did something happen?”

Alexander shakes his head and, god, he wishes he could stop crying. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and takes a deep breath. “No, but…” He chokes on a sob. “ _Burr._ ”

It doesn’t convey anything except _everything hurts,_ but maybe Burr understands because he holds Alexander’s face in his hands, cradled in his palms. “Tell me, Alex,” he says softly. “Why are you so sad?”

Alexander’s lip trembles.

“I miss her,” Alexander says. “I miss my Betsey,” and a new wave of tears flow in, sorrowful and wrenched from his heart.

He turns away, thinking Burr is uncomfortable with this display of emotion. Burr always gets so standoffish, Alexander’s frequent displays of emotion foreign to him. Alexander covers his face to hide his tears because he can’t bear for Burr to become even more ashamed of him, but Burr goes, “Oh, my poor Alex,” and reaches out to Alexander. Alexander doesn’t fight it when Burr wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, and he buries his face into Burr’s neck, muffling a pathetic whine.

He’s always been so sure of everything in his life, but Eliza makes him weak — she makes him afraid to die because then he’d be without her and her without him — but she makes him strong, she makes him better.

Burr doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better. Alexander appreciates that Burr doesn’t offer platitudes. Burr is real, one of the truest things he’s ever known — and he was so _so_ wrong about him.

Alexander has been wrong about many things. He doesn’t waste his time thinking if he’d do them over again because he doesn’t believe in second chances, but sniffling against Burr’s skin that smells like sleep and brisk and himself while Burr comforts him because he _wants_ to, he thinks that maybe there are such things as second chances.

 

* * *

 

Alexander must write to Eliza. By the time he’s sitting at the table with his paper and pen, Burr says he’s going for a walk. Or something. He isn’t really listening, too involved already in his letter — all he knows is that when he rests his wrist and looks up, he is alone, and he realizes that he wouldn’t have minded if Burr had stayed.

He shrugs it off, and continues writing.

He must write to her. He writes to her every other day — at least — even though it’ll be weeks before she receives his letters and will likely get them in bulk. It’s a relief to write to her and put his feelings into being. It’s like it was during their courtship — they are separated by distance, he’s emotionally deprived, and he sends ten letters to her one.

 _Dearest Betsey_ , he writes, and he thinks of how she’ll read his sweetheart name for her and smile, perhaps blush when he writes how he wishes to caress her. She’d place her hand on her chest and pretend it’s him. He tells her he’s lonely, but doesn’t elaborate — he doesn’t wish for her to worry over him — but he wants her to know he misses her terribly and won’t be truly happy until he’s with her and the children again. _I look forward to being at home, with the comfort of my family, the promise of it getting me through lonelier days,_ he writes, a half-truth — he doesn’t say that he can’t think too much about her or the children because then he’d be overcome with grief and he can’t bear to associate them with that.

He talks about something else instead. 

 

> _B is fine, and wishes you well. I much prefer your company to his — he’s often moody and sullen and we have disagreements. But worry not, we are getting along just fine, and have not killed each other. I know that I am not the easiest to be with, either — I do have some self-awareness, no matter what you and B have discussed amongst yourselves — so I offer pleasantries, and B more than makes up for his less favorable aspects. We clash, but we clash so well. He is susceptible to my charms, and I bend my knee to him and my mouth says nothing—_

  

He loses track of the time, as he always does when writing to Eliza, and soon the table is covered in paper with ink drying in various stages. He’s vaguely aware of the door opening and closing but he starts a new page, continuing his thought, but he can’t help but smile when Burr comes up behind him and kisses him his neck.

Alexander sets down his quill and turns around in the chair, but Burr is already across the small room, and by the way Burr walks he _knows_ immediately how Burr spent his time — he knows that loose, I-just-had-sex swagger of Burr’s.

He was in here despondent and alone and Burr should’ve been thinking of comforting him, not fucking someone who isn’t _him —_ that inconsiderate goddamn _asshole._

“Did you have fun?” Alexander asks, more hostile than he intended, but he’s standing and taking sauntering steps towards Burr. “Who was it? Michelle? Did you spend all that was in your pocket? If you keep _that—_ ” he nods to Burr’s groin, “—up, then our funds will deplete and we’ll have no way home.”

Burr narrows his eyes, cautious. He hangs up his coat and loosens his cravat, puts it on the dresser. “She was busy with Robert,” Burr says. “He’s rather spry for his age.”

“So, who?” Alexander takes a step closer and he can _smell_ sex on Burr. “The woman down the hall with one hundred shawls?”

“She has only fifty at most. And it wasn’t her, either.”

“Did you finally bed that pair of young women who have eluded you? The Swedish woman? Murphy?”

“I haven’t fucked another man, jesus christ, Hamilton.” Burr pushes past him and sits on the bed and takes off his shoes. “It was the salesman’s wife, if you must know.   Now I’m going to take a nap, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure, go ahead. Take your drugs and go to sleep so you won’t have to _deal_ with me because I’m so _horrible_ to be with.” Alexander’s eyes sting for the second time that day, but this time he’s angry. It’s always been rather inconvenient to cry when he’s angry; it had taken a lot of willpower not to burst into tears during cabinet meetings.

Burr sighs when he sees Alexander’s eyes welling up. He seems unfazed by it. If anything, he’s annoyed. He takes off his breeches and stockings, puts them aside, folded, and sits back down. He doesn’t look at Alexander.

“You aren’t horrible to be with,” Burr mutters.

“Then why do you act like it?” Alexander asks. “I feel used — like I’m just here to suck your cock when you let me, and then you go off and sleep with other people.”

“I thought you didn’t care if I slept with women.” Burr is looking at him too intensely. “I asked you and you said—”

“I know what I said,” says Alexander, quick, sharp. “But today I was upset and you were being selfish, when you should have been with me.”

“Fucking with you instead, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny, because you were just writing to your wife about how much you miss her, but your mouth is watering for my cock in it.”

“Non sequitur,” Alexander says, swallowing down the extra saliva that produced at Burr’s suggestion. “How _dare_ you question my loyalty to Eliza, I miss her with my entire heart.”

“But not with your cock?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Alexander gestures to the table that’s covered in paper. “There’s my proof that I yearn for her. Every thought and feeling I have, transcribed. I write to people when I miss them. I write to Angelica, I wrote to Laurens, I wrote to you when you disappeared away to the Capitol for months.”

He’s breathing hard and he’s past the point of tears, and he’s ready for a fight. He looks down at Burr, but there’s no evocation in that face he’s grown to adore so dearly.

“I write to those I care for,” Alexander says. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“It just means you like writing letters,” says Burr, flat as his expression, but then he looks up at Alexander and there’s _something_ in those dark eyes of his. Dare, that glint where he knows he’s smarter than him and he’s got him all figured out. “You’re enchanting with your clever words and phrases that go on and on, but that’s superfluous, a distraction from yourself. You write what you _think_ people want to read from you. It’s easy for you, and you do it because it’s how you trick them into liking you.”

Alexander wishes he hadn’t sworn off dueling, because he’d shoot Burr for real if he had another chance — but he could just kill him right here. Smother him with a pillow and say he drank and whored himself to death.

Burr doesn’t know him, he never has.

And he will never know him, either.

“You like me. You’ve told me so,” Alexander says. “And I don’t care if I _tricked_ you into it.”

“As long as there’s a means to an end?”

“I do whatever’s necessary to get what I want.”

“I’ve noticed.”

It’s true, and right now he wants Burr, and he wants Burr to want him.

Burr is right about one thing — he’s good at making people want him.

Alexander goes to his knees in front of Burr, bracing himself on Burr’s leg to ease himself down to the floor. It does no favor for his aching joints, but the position gives him a clear view of Burr’s cock tenting his shirt.

Alexander smiles. Burr is like him — everything between them is so sexually charged that arguing has become the lead-up to sex. It gets them both hot. In the last couple minutes he’s filled out his breeches. He reaches down and rubs himself to get some relief, but what he wants most is to get Burr’s cock in his mouth.

He looks up at Burr, lifts Burr’s shirt away from his lap, revealing his hardness, thick and slightly curved. Burr makes a sound of disapproval, probably because he’s mad that Alexander had been right. Alexander grins, and wraps a hand around Burr and strokes him slowly, keeping eye contact so he can see Burr’s reaction.

“Do you think of me when you fuck women?” Alexander asks. “I know you have, before, when you’d go fuck your whores because you couldn’t fuck me, then you’d come back stinking of sex and share a bed with me. You pressed yourself against my ass in the night. Don’t pretend that was an accident.”

“Are you equating yourself to a whore?”

“I’m better, aren’t I? Nobody knows you like I do, and nobody can make you come as hard as I do—”

“You’re not doing anything for me right now,” Burr says. He pushes his hips forward so his cock slides in Alexander’s hand. “Are you going to do something other than talk to me or do I have to go to someone else again?”

Alexander glares at him. That’s Burr’s most commonly played trick — a dare for him to _talk less_ — and Alexander falls for it every time, that fiendish horrible Aaron Burr.

He licks over the head of Burr’s cock, closing his eyes when Burr lets out a satisfied groan. His own cock throbs but he’s more interested in sucking Burr so good he’ll never want anyone else again. He’s skilled at this, and he’s good at eating out women, too — he loves pressing his face against cunt and licking inside until his face is damp. But there’s nothing like his mouth filled with thick warmth, working his lips tongue and teeth to make a man tremble. He’d say he’s better at sucking dick than any woman because he has one himself, and he knows what it feels like.

And judging by the way Burr is gasping and trying to thrust forward, he knows it’s true. He’s good.

He takes him down, lowering past the head and down the shaft, pressing his tongue at the underside. It gets messy fast, spit running out of the corners of his mouth and down Burr’s length. He uses the slick to stroke what isn’t in his mouth, hollows his cheeks and sucks and licks until Burr is swearing and arching his back, his hand going to the nape of Alexander’s neck. It’s a steady pressure there, fingers playing with his hair, scratches at his scalp.

“Alex,” Burr says, and some of the venom of their fight is still there, but there’s that sentiment that he can’t deny, no matter how much he tries. He tugs slightly at Alexander’s hair and _oh_ , that has been a fun thing between them, the littlest bit of pain that makes him choke on pleasure. Alexander moans open-mouthed around Burr, but Burr directs him back, says, “Finish.”

Alexander isn’t as young as he used to be, and the pain in his knees reminds him of this. He shifts on them, leans forward and lowers his mouth on Burr. He closes his eyes as Burr makes an appreciative noise and gently pets his hair, mumbling things like, “good,” and “Alex,” and “like that,” and “best,” and “lovely,” and “please,” and he isn’t sure if Burr knows he’s saying them but that’s even better, delicious words compelled from him.

“Alex.” It’s like an invocation, Burr saying his name again and pushing hair out of his face, rubbing his thumb along the curve of his ear. “Alex, please—”

He loves it when Burr begs, finally giving in — and he gives in too, relaxing his throat and floating on bliss as he goes down more, forcing past a gag and Burr swears _fuck, Alex_ and he’s shaking all over but he doesn’t stop until Burr’s cock is tucked all the way in his mouth and his balls rest against his chin. He breathes in through his nose, smells the marvelous musky scent of _Burr_ from where he’s pressed against curly coarse hair. Burr seems to grow fuller in his mouth, leaking down his throat, but he can’t do much more than drool around Burr’s cock. He’s so hard he hurts but he stays on his knees for Burr, he’d stay here all evening with his lips spread around his dick. He loves this, he moans and Burr grips his hair and yes _yes_ but Burr pulls him off him, slowly.

“Look at me,” Burr says, and Alexander opens his eyes, looks up. Burr is kind, subdued by sex. He rubs his thumb over Alexander’s swollen lips, wiping up spit.

“You’re so pretty,” Burr says. “Too pretty for your damn good.”

“I—,” Alexander begins, but his voice cracks, hoarse. He tries again. “I know.”

“Your arrogance isn’t as pretty.”

“Liar.”

Burr smiles, shy, like he’s been caught.

“Come up here,” Burr says. “I want to touch you.”

Alexander nods, but then pauses when he realizes he hadn’t thought much about how he was going to get up from the floor. He tries to stand, using the bed to push up, but his side pains him and he feels too weak, and he sits back on his knees. Blood concentrated elsewhere isn’t helping.

“Um,” he says, and thankfully Burr understands without making him ashamed. Burr hooks his arms under Alexander’s armpits and hoists him up from the floor. It works but then they go off-kilter, and Burr ends up on his back and Alexander laying on top of him.

“This is where we wanted to be anyway, isn’t it?” Alexander kisses the sweet spot on Burr’s neck. With Burr’s skin tone, it’s harder to make him bloom with kiss-bitten bruises, but he tries.

Burr makes a humming noise, tilts his head back so Alexander can get better access. He runs his hand down the slope of Alexander’s back, rests it on his ass. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

That, Alexander agrees on. They sit up, Burr pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, and then helps Alexander out of his clothes, covering exposed skin with his mouth — he kisses his throat, bites his shoulder, licks his nipple. Clothes are a nuisance, keeping him from rubbing against Burr and he’s so fucking turned on he can’t make his hands work to undo complicated buttons and fastenings but they get him bare and Burr drags him so he’s lined up against him.

It goes quick. Burr puts his leg over Alexander and their cocks rub against each other — they stay like that and rut like crazed animals, sweating and clutching at skin and kissing sloppily.

Springs squeak and the headboard slams against the wall. They’re so close together, he isn’t sure who comes first, or if they do together, oddly romantic — hot and sticky between their stomachs.

They lay against each other, panting and coming down from their peak. Alexander isn’t quite finished — he moves down, licking sweat off Burr’s chest as he goes, until he’s at their mess on Burr. He glances up to Burr, smiles, makes sure he’s watching as he leans in and broadly licks up the mix of their semen off his stomach.

“Gross,” says Burr, but he doesn’t look away. Alexander knows him well enough that he’s putting on a front because…because he still isn’t entirely okay with this.

That’s okay.

Alexander licks him, swallows, and then kisses the cleaned skin. He licks and kisses and bites next to Burr’s belly button until Burr grumbles and says, “Stop that and come here to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you.”

Alexander smiles, rests his face on Burr’s stomach. “I won’t until you say _why_ you want me to.”

Burr sighs; Alexander can feel it expel from his insides.

“Fine,” Burr says, conceding, like he knows he’s in a losing battle with Alexander. “I want to hold you, you crazy bastard.”

There’s no flinch at the slur that’s followed him all his life — it’s said with an affection that makes him glow.

“Alright.” Alexander kisses him once more, and then scoots up next to him, kissing him on his mouth. “Then hold me.”

Burr does as promised — he wraps his arm around him, pulls him close. They fit together so perfectly, there’s no denial that they belong together. A perfectly damaged set, their flaws matching up.

“What are you thinking of?” Alexander wonders if Burr thinks the same, but he’d probably never admit it.

“I’m thinking I’ve got beard-burn on my ballsack,” Burr says, and they both giggle like teenagers and Burr has to kiss him to quiet him. Alexander deepens it, whimpering softly, but Burr pulls away — he tries to chase his lips with his, but Burr shakes his head.

“Actually,” Burr says, “I was thinking that they did mean something.”

“What does?”

“Your letters,” Burr says. “I kept all of them because they meant something to me. You mean something to me, Alex.”

It’s everything that Alexander has wanted to hear — but why does it make him feel so terrible?

“And you mean something to me,” Alexander says. “You always have.”

And Burr lets out a sound that resembles a sob but he’d never admit to it. He holds Alexander so tight that it almost hurts, and he keeps holding him like he’s trying to prove himself, like he’s trying to transfer his feelings to him through his skin so he won’t have to say them aloud, because no words can quite capture it.

Alexander clings to him and hopes that Burr understands, _me too._

 

* * *

 

Burr sleeps. If he sneaks a couple drops of laudanum, Alexander doesn’t know.

Alexander puts on one of Burr’s shirts — it smells like him — and finishes his letter to Eliza.

 _Our issues are ongoing, never resolved in full_ , he writes. _We sort through one problem only for a new one to appear. But is that not how it is with any relationship? Nothing is perfect…_

He looks over to Burr, who’s sleeping soundly with the blanket fallen off his shoulder, and reaching out, like he’s holding onto someone who isn’t there.

He’s nearly as perfect as he can be.

But he isn’t — Burr is wonderfully flawed — so Alexander allows Burr to be imperfect — he forgives the whoring and the mood swings and the opium — and he allows himself to be imperfect, too.

 

* * *

 

Others know what he and Burr are to each other. It’s never said outright, but they know.

Alexander mentioned it only once to Burr, because Burr didn’t talk to him in public for two days after he brought it up, as if denial could conceal the lascivious way he looks at him — like he wants to take him to bed and keep him there until he’s done with him. But it’s obvious to the other patrons at The Wayward. An extra pillow appears a few days into his stay (even though he still shares Burr’s, usually). Fresh linens appear every few days — Alexander tips the maid for the discretion of dealing with the sheets made filthy with mysterious stains. People give them space so they can sit together on the sofa next to the fireplace, and when is without the other, they’re asked, “Where’s your friend?” because they are a _thing_ now.

And it isn’t missed when they have their disagreements. Burr is particularly grumpy one evening and goes to bed early, leaving Alexander in the main room. Burr probably wants him to follow and argue for half an hour before they fuck it out, but Alexander won’t be played like that. He’ll make Burr wait for him. Make him know he won’t be treated this way.

However, he can’t focus on the book he’s reading, his thoughts straying to Burr between phrases, and he ends up shutting the book in disgust.

Goddamn Burr. Damn his fussiness, damn his oddities, damn how he makes Alexander want to keep going back for more—

“He’ll forgive you.”

Alexander frowns as old man Robert sits in the chair next to him, grinning too amused. Everyone thinks they know something about them. Assuming lowlifes with nothing better to entertain themselves. Alexander has half a mind to make a rude gesture, but the man wouldn’t see it, which seems _too_ rude.

“I haven’t done anything to be forgiven,” Alexander says.

“Are you sure?” Robert asks, and, sure — maybe he’s done something that Burr finds offensive, but that’s Burr’s problem, not his.

When Alexander doesn’t answer, Robert continues. “I can’t decide which of you is more stubborn. You’re quite the match.”

Alexander snorts. “We’ve always been like this, even before we were—”

He’s revealed too much.

He looks down, stares at Robert’s cane. It looks similar to his, but it’s more worn, and used mostly for tapping it around him so he doesn’t run into anything.

“Before you were lovers?” Robert asks.

Alexander doesn’t confirm, but he doesn’t deny it, either. He and Burr have been a lot of things. Friends, comrades, colleagues, rivals, enemies, friends again, _lovers_ —

“He’ll forgive you,” Robert repeats. “Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because he likes you too much not to.”

Burr has said that he _likes_ him, more than once — reassuring _I like you, I want you_. Alexander would like to think that’s true, and he believes it most of the time, evidenced by the way Burr kisses and touches and looks at him like it’s only him, and the way he says _Alex_ could convince him of anything _—_

—but other times, Alexander thinks that Burr just likes the idea of him.

“Don’t worry,” Robert says, “I won’t tell him. Or anyone else for that matter. Your secret is safe with me.”

Robert buys him a drink because _that solves all problems_ and then Alexander buys them a round, then another, and then he buys everyone in the main room a drink, and another, and by the time Alexander finally makes his way up to their room, he’s very drunk. Slaphappy drunk. He falls up the stairs, and concludes it’s too difficult to get up so he almost falls asleep, but Michelle gives him a nudge with her foot as she passes with the large man. He watches them disappear into a room and listens until he hears the beginnings of explicit sounds, and then manages to pull himself up using the banister, dragging himself to the room he shares with Burr (before accidentally going into the room with the two young ladies who don’t say much and _okay_ that explains why they wouldn’t fuck Burr, they occupy themselves just fine).

Alexander closes the door behind him, locks it, turns to see Burr — who is awake, sitting up against the pillows in bed, reading. _Good,_ Alexander had expected him to be sleeping hours ago. He waited for him! He does like him!

“Did you miss me?” asks Alexander. Is it just him, or is the room spinning?

“No.” Burr hardly looking up from his book. He’s obviously drowsy, his eyes red and heavy-lidded, but Alexander knows that he’d never admit that he had been waiting up for him.

Nevertheless, Alexander goes over to him, clumsily walking with his cane — it’s difficult enough to work both of his feet but to use his cane too? Impressive. He looks at Burr, who doesn’t look impressed at all. He should be more impressed.

“You like me.” Alexander sways. Hiccups. “You like me, Aaron _Burr_.”

Burr sighs. “You’re wasted.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You smell awful.”

“Probably.” The warm happy intoxication turns emotional, volatile, as it often does with Alexander. His eyes blur with tears. “Do you still like me, even if I smell bad?”

“Probably.” Burr starts helping Alexander out of his clothes. Helpful Burr. Nice Burr. Burr slips his jacket and waistcoat off, undoes his neck cloth, and then makes Alexander sit on the bed, stands and bends over so he can take off his breeches and stockings. Burr’s fingers brush against the soft skin of his inner thigh as he unties his garter and Alexander moans and goes to touch Burr — because that’s an old move for him, isn’t it? Burr thinks he’s sly — but Burr swats his hand away and says, “Not tonight. I think we’d both fall asleep during it.”

Alexander pouts. Burr can’t ever resist that. Unfortunately, Burr is too busy pulling his stocking off his left foot to see.

“We were fighting.” Alexander sniffles. “Again.”

“We were.” Burr motions for Alexander to lift his arms so he can take his shirt off. The sleeve gets caught on his wrist and he whines, but Burr gently frees him from it, leaving Alexander sitting on the bed naked with his hair hanging limply around his face.

“I don’t remember why we were fighting.” Alexander feels like he’s whining. He probably is. Burr won’t like that — but Burr just kisses his forehead and then puts a clean nightshirt over his head.

“It doesn’t matter why,” says Burr.

Alexander tries to get his arms through the sleeves, but fails, and Burr has to help him.

“Do you forgive meeee?” Alexander feels whimpery, foolish, and drunk — and okay, Burr says he likes him but why doesn’t Burr like him _always?_ and tears are coming again and and and

His breath catches in his throat when Burr rubs his thumb across his cheek, wiping away a tear.

“Of course I forgive you, you plonk,” Burr says. He kisses Alexander on his forehead, and then his nose. Alexander hums happily and closes his eyes and leans in, asking for a kiss — and even though his breath smells horrible, Burr presses his lips to his.

“Drink this.” Burr hands him a glass of water. It’s lukewarm, but he gulps it down fast, water dribbling down his chin. “Careful,” Burr tells him, gently, as gentle as he’s running his hand against Alexander’s back. “Careful.”

Alexander finishes the water and he has to admit he feels a bit better, albeit waterlogged. A belch surprises him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Burr takes the glass from him and sets it on the bedside table before turning back to him. “You need to rest.”

“Fantastic idea. Smart Burr. Best Burr.” Alexander mumbles other nonsense as he lies in the still-warm spot where Burr had been earlier. He lets out a relaxed sigh when his head hits the pillow — _mmm_ , it smells like Burr — and Burr isn’t next to him, that is not good, not good at all. He asks for him, “Burr?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Burr replies. He snuffs out the candle, and then the mattress dips when he gets in on the other side of the bed. He tucks the blanket around Alexander how he likes it, and then lies on his side so he’s facing Alexander.

“Better?” Burr asks. Alexander nods, and then wiggles closer to him.

“Burr?”

“Yes, Alex?”

“Do you forgive me because you like me?”

“I suppose.”

“Oh,” Alexander says, yawning. “Good. He was right.”

“Who was right?” asks Burr, but before Alexander can answer, he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Burr wakes him up with a hair of the dog and a bit of toast. His stomach turns when he sees them, but he forces the drink and the food down and he feels less horrible, so.

Burr complains when he gets crumbs in the bed sheets. Alexander replies with, “It’s not the worst thing these sheets have seen.”

Burr rolls his eyes. “Do you remember last night?”

Alexander blushes, remembering drinking himself silly, jovially playing the piano and singing, managing to fall up the stairs, Burr having to help him to bed.

“Mostly,” he says, slowly. Burr is probably going to make a comment about how he should be ashamed to be in such a state, blah blah blah.

“Who were you talking about when you said _he was right_?” Burr asks, then adds, “that I forgive you because I like you.”

Oh, that.

“Robert,” Alexander says, and then shakes his head when Burr looks panicked. “I didn’t say anything! He heard us fighting and then he came over and did his wise old man thing.”

Burr bites his lip. “He said that I like you?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” Burr clears his throat. “How does he know?”

Alexander smiles. “It’s obvious. He said he could understand why you’d feel that way, since I’m so cute and all.”

“He’s blind. He can’t see what you look like.”

“Then you must have told him.”

“I did no such thing.”

“But you do think I’m cute?”

“Shut up,” Burr says, but he’s blushing and _that’s_ cute — Burr looks away for a moment, as if shy, but then he leans down and kisses him closed mouthed on the lips.

“Cute,” Burr says, smiling, and something furls in Alexander’s chest that he hasn’t felt in a long time — something familiar, but new and specific for Burr.

 

* * *

 

Burr makes an effort to be nice. He wakes Alexander early one morning with a hand on his dick and sleepily mumbles, “Good morning,” and it’s a good morning indeed while they lazily jerk each other off.

After, when Alexander’s heart is still fast in his chest, Burr gets out of bed and goes to the basin to wash off. Alexander closes his eyes — a quick nap sounds wonderful — but Burr throws a wet rag at him.

“Get up,” Burr says. “I’ve got plans for us today.”

Alexander laughs to himself. Burr’s plans usually consist of sleeping in, doing boring things around the neighborhood, coming back for dinner before the sun sets, fucking until they’re both exhausted, writing in that journal of his, then sleeping.

But Burr is insistent — he comes over and gives Alexander a pat on the rear and that gets Alexander going. He washes off, shaves, dresses in a heather-gray outfit, brushes his hair until it shines. Eventually Burr says that he looks _fine_ and could they please go — then huffs because he realizes he’s paid Alexander a compliment.

Alexander takes one last look in the mirror, adjusts his collar to make sure those lovely bruises aren’t peeking out, and then hooks his arm around Burr’s elbow and says, “Let’s go, good sir.”

He meant it as a joke — taking him arm-in-arm as he so often does with Eliza when they walk together in town — but it doesn’t go unnoticed how Burr takes in a sharp breath or how his body goes rigid next to his. He goes to pull away, but Burr catches his hand and says, “No.”

And they stay like that, together, until they reach the top of the stairs and Burr frees himself and descends first, with Alexander following behind. As Alexander takes the stairs one at a time, he thinks how nice it was with Burr at his side, but he knows there’s only so much affection they can openly show.

He tries not to be too upset about it, because that’s just the way it is.

 

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” Alex walks alongside Burr through their corner of London, and then down streets they haven’t traveled before.

“It’s a surprise,” Burr says. He makes a right turn, and Alexander follows and bounds next to Burr.

“Tell me _please_ , Burr,” he says, pleading. “I’ll act surprised.”

There’s a restrained smile on Burr’s mouth — it flickers, like it’s caught in a struggle to show itself — but he keeps looking at Alexander and his smile escapes, dimples and all.

“Can’t you just let me take you somewhere?” Burr asks.

“Take me somewhere?” Alexander bumps his hips against Burr’s, and then whispers so only he can hear. “Is this a date?”

“No,” Burr quickly says, but his blush says _yes._

Alexander smiles, pleased, but he says nothing so Burr won’t become even more bashful.

However, he does have a giddy skip to his step.

He doesn’t have to question Burr any further about where he’s taking him, because they round a corner and come to a street full with tables set up with people mulling about.

Alexander turns to Burr. “A street festival?”

Burr hitches his shoulder into a shrug. “I read about it in the paper. It sounded interesting.” His mouth is formed into a straight line, but Alexander knows him well enough to know that he is forcing himself to appear nonchalant because there’s nothing casual about _I saw something I thought you’d like._

There’s nothing he wants to do more than kiss Burr, however, decorum doesn’t allow that, so instead Alexander pats him on the back and says, “Thank you.”

Burr looks like he kind of wants to kiss him too, but he’s blessed with more self-restraint than Alexander. Alexander wishes Burr wasn’t, he wishes Burr would grab him and kiss him hard, filthy, and sloppy here in the middle of the street for everyone to see.

“You’re welcome.” It seems like Burr wants to say something else, but he just sighs and takes Alexander’s hand in his. He holds it for the slightest moment as he looks at him — the silence says everything of his longing.

“You have the capability to be incredibly kind to me,” Alexander says, softly. “You shouldn’t be afraid to—”

Burr lets his hand drop, and with it, the subject drops too.

“It’s just like any other day, right?” asks Burr, and he goes in the direction of the crowd.

Alexander would argue that no day is like any other day, but he follows before he loses him.

It’s a nice summer day, warm as one at home — sunny with just the right amount of humidity and no clouds in sight, but the air feels crisper, somehow. They wander through the crowded street, leisurely checking out what the vendors have to offer. Burr buys Alexander ice cream, saying, “I know you have a predilection for sweet things.” It’s delicious, but melts faster than Alexander can eat it, and he licks where it gets on his hand, not wanting to miss one drop.

“You’re making a mess,” Burr says, pulling out his handkerchief and wipes Alexander’s face. It feels so natural between them that it’s only when Alexander meets eyes with Burr that he realizes what Burr has done, in public, where everyone could see — and by the way Burr’s hand stills, clenches, then shoves his handkerchief back in his pocket suggests that he realized the same.

Alexander licks his lips. They taste like vanilla. Burr looks at though he’d like to clean them with his tongue, and then some.

“I can’t help it,” Alexander says. “I’m prone to messes, as you know.”

He knows that Burr is thinking the same as him — him lying in their bed, with a mix of their come on his stomach. Burr is visibly affected, his jaw clenching and his eyes furious. Alexander can’t tell if Burr would rather shoot him or kiss him, or both.

“I’m aware,” Burr says, toneless. He pretends to be interested in the display of wine glasses at the table closest to them, but he’s so high-strung that he knocks them over.

Alexander hides his smile as he finishes his ice cream, overjoyed that he can frustrate Burr that much.

They have a wonderful day together, enjoying each other’s company as they look at the various things at the festival.  Burr tries to contain his excitement over some antique coins — apparently he collects coins, to which Alexander says, “I’m learning more about you every day” — and Alexander buys him one, because him being a dork is so _adorable_ , honestly. They sample French perfume, smelling the bottles and spraying it at each other, but one scent catches him by surprise — springtime flowers — and if he closes his eyes he’s reminded of Eliza. He buys it for her, and Burr listens to him talk about her. Burr always seems to like hearing about Eliza, which just is another reason to like him. Alexander thought that Burr would be jealous because of a battle for affections. But Burr isn’t jealous. Alexander doesn’t think he would be as understanding, if it were the other way around. He can barely stand it when Burr flirts with women, let alone be in a serious and committed relationship.

When they’ve seen all there is to see at the street festival, they find an outside café to have a late lunch, and then a couple beers so Alexander can sit and rest some more. They end up spending over two hours drinking and talking with each other — they never run out things to discuss, despite having been around each other all day since Alexander arrived in London. Alexander just likes being _with_ Burr.

And every moment, he likes him more, and more—

Alexander doesn’t want the day to end, but time passes, as it does. The sun is headed back towards the horizon as they walk along the Thames, light finding it’s way around buildings. It reminds him of the Hudson. It’s a gorgeous sight, but it’s not as nice as when Burr smiles at him without reservation, like he’s truly happy, and Alexander is happy, too — it’s the best day they’ve had together.

It’s almost too good to be true.

“Why did you do this for me?” Alexander says. An apology for all the bad days? Setting the scene to ask for a favor? Or just _because_ , because he wants to do something nice for him?

He needs to learn to appreciate a good thing. Don’t ask questions. Take what he’s given. But he’s never satisfied, right?

Burr frowns — or Alexander guesses that he is, his expression a dark unknown, his body eclipsing the rapidly setting sun.

“You don’t know?” Burr asks. He steps closer to Alexander, and Alexander instinctively takes one back. The air has changed and the sun is rapidly setting and Alexander can see Burr with clarity now — that mercilessness has returned, that flare of anger, indignation, and resentment, but more than anything, it’s a shroud for his disappointment that’s there in those sad eyes.

“What should I know?” Alexander racks his brain for what the significance of Burr’s attentions are. He hasn’t done anything to deserve this, and he can’t recall any anniversary of some sort — it’s been only a few weeks (wonderful, wonderful weeks) that they’ve been together, and they kissed in the beginning of spring and not in the heat of summer, and the first time they met was in October (he remembers that, how amazed he was that the leaves changed color and they fell to the ground and he remembers how they went _crunch_ under his boots when he chased the collegian Aaron Burr, sir), and…oh.

He knows Burr knows that he’s figured it out, that he’s thinking of a hot summer day, the eleventh of July, a meeting of two gentlemen on a New Jersey shore, with the intention to settle their honor.

“How could you forget?” asks Burr. His voice is rough, wrecked, tortured. “How could you forget that day?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Alexander says, and he doesn’t think he ever will — he remembers standing ten paces away from his friend, and he remembers firing his pistol in the air — a decision he wasn’t sure of until he was across from Burr — and then he remembers Burr hurting him and Burr trying to get to him, trying to say something, and the rest is blurred but he remembers what dying feels like and he remembers his family around him as he was breathing what he thought was his last, he remembers choked out confessions and forgiveness so his everlasting soul could be saved, and he remembers how close the other side was, and he remembers loved ones he’s lost to that other side to greet him only to turn him away—

—but it’s only a memory. It isn’t how he remembers Burr — he remembers him as the clever student he admired and he remembers him as the brave officer and he remembers his affection and he remembers that he likes him and he remembers that they made a _mistake._

“I haven’t forgotten,” Alexander says, “but I don’t always remember.”

Burr bites his lip and looks off to the river. He won’t speak and Alexander won’t have that. Burr can’t bring it up and pretend it hasn’t happened. Alexander stands next to him, overlooking the Thames, and slowly, cautiously, puts his hand over where Burr’s rests on the railing. Burr doesn’t acknowledge him, but doesn’t move his hand, so, that’s something.

“Do you know something else that I remember?” Alexander glances sidelong to Burr, who makes a gruff sound in his throat, but still doesn’t look at him. “ _Burr.”_

“What, Alexander?”

He smiles. That’s better.

“I thought we were past that dueling thing,” Alexander says. “Remember when we went out to the pond near my house and threw my dueling pistols into the water?”

Burr’s jaw twitches. “They weren’t your guns,” Burr says. “You borrowed them from John Church.”

Alexander shrugs. “I had done enough damage with them. They were mine.”

Burr’s put-upon indifference remains. “If you say so.”

“Let’s go—,” Alexander begins, but then stops himself. _Let’s go home_ had been on the tip of his tongue, thinking of the comfort of their small, shitty room at the inn, but then his _home_ comes to mind, his house with yellow paint and never enough space with all the kids and yet there is enough room for Burr. He misses his home terribly but…he isn’t ready to go back yet.

He wonders if Burr misses it too, and if he still wants more time that’s just for them.

Burr leans into him, pressing shoulder to shoulder. Close enough to be intimate, but innocent enough to be thought of as a mistake to onlookers.

“Whatever you want, Alex,” Burr says. “Remember, today is for you.”

It’s evening by the time they make it back to the inn. They retire upstairs without conversing with anyone, both too interested in each other. Alexander keeps thinking of what Burr said, _today is for you_ — how ironic it is, when Burr almost took everything away from him on this day. How interesting how things can change in two years.

Burr is characteristically quiet when they get to their room. He methodically prepares his pipe and is mindful of Alexander’s distaste for pipe tobacco, opening the single window and sits on the sill and blows smoke out into the open air.

Alexander gives Burr his space — he needs his own, too. He pens a letter to Eliza, detailing his day ( _injuring me was the beginning of courtship, it seems_ ) _,_ but then he grows lonely for Burr. He hides the letter away and undresses down to his shirt, goes over to his lover, slides his arms around him and places his head on his shoulder.

“I miss you, darling,” Alexander mumbles.

Burr blows out a puff of smoke. “ _Darling?”_

Alexander kisses him. “Would you prefer another name, darling? Scoundrel, good-for-nothing, savage beast—”

Burr displays savagery, grabbing Alexander and kissing him hard, possessively, fingers curling in his hair.

“Let’s go to bed, _darling_ ,” Burr growls and Alexander needs no convincing.

Burr gives Alexander what he desires, naked and sweaty and rubbing against each other, and after, he gives the close quiet that Alexander likes and Burr is too shy to admit that he likes, too. But Alexander knows he does — how couldn’t he, with how he lies facing him and kisses his forehead? He couldn’t not truly care for him with all the thoughtful things he did for him today, even if they were guilt-driven.

“Thank you for today,” Alexander says. “I had fun. But you didn’t need to — you didn’t need to make up for anything. You could have done those nice things because you wanted to do nice things for me.”

“I do want to do nice things for you.” Burr kisses Alexander’s throat. “I have problems sometimes, showing that I care.”

“Only because you make yourself think that.”

“I want you to know that I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t hurt me,” Alexander says. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Burr bites his lip, apprehensive. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Alexander says, kissing Burr when he frowns. “Go on.”

Burr looks as miserable as he did earlier by the river.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Burr asks.

“I didn’t want to shoot you,” Alexander replies. The reasoning is more complex than that — following his own advice he gave to his son, penance for Philip, another power play, a flirtation with death perhaps, a chance to see how much he could risk — but that’s enough to answer Burr.

Burr accepts it. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you say those horrible things about me?” Burr asks. “I knew that you did not hold me in high regard, but for you to have thought of me as _despicable_ was unfathomable.”

Truthfully, Alexander doesn’t remember what he said or who he said it to. Most likely, it had been drunken ramblings overheard and taken too seriously. Back then, he talked a lot about Burr so he doesn’t doubt what he said, but did he mean it? Possibly.

“Did you not say similar things about my character?” Alexander asks. They did duel, after all.

“Only to a few trusted sources. I’m not like you and prattle on to anyone who will listen.”

“Ah, you slander me again,” says Alexander, in jest. “Let us not cavil when we can settle our differences in more agreeable methods.”

Burr rolls his eyes as Alexander touches him under the blankets.

“It’s not slander when it’s true. You are a blabbermouth,” Burr says. “And you didn’t answer my original question.”

Alexander sighs; breathes in, breathes out. “I said those things to get your attention.”

“Liar.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? It got your attention.”

“And a bullet nestled in your ribs.”

“Nevertheless.” Alexander kisses Burr lightly on the mouth. “Gotcha.”

And Burr has got him — Burr kisses him, then again, more intensely. Alexander whimpers, letting Burr kiss and touch him, his hand running down his side until fingers graze against the rough scar from their incident two years prior. Alexander closes his eyes while Burr circles it with his fingertip — it almost tickles — and kisses his neck.

It feels like an apology. Burr shuts his eyes as he touches him, and Alexander begins to speak but doesn’t, because Burr isn’t looking particularly sorry.

But he wants to know. Has to know. “Do you regret it?”

“Not really,” Burr says, automatically. He counters, “Do you?”

“Would you forgive me if our roles were reversed?” asks Alexander. “Would you forgive me if I had shot you?”

“No, never.” Burr doesn’t hesitate over that answer, either.

Alexander feels fragile, as numb with pain and fear as he did that July morning, but he reaches out to Burr and Burr takes him and kisses him like he’s certain of everything, certain of _them_ , of what came before and what’s now and what is yet to come.

“I know,” Alexander says, and Burr kisses him again, and with his mouth still wet from Burr’s mouth, it takes him a moment to remember what they had been saying.

 

* * *

 

Alexander has nightmares — he always has, his trauma started young. Burr is discreet about them, shaking him awake during the worst of them and lulling him back to sleep like any considerate lover would.

It’s not a surprise he has one tonight. He dreams of Burr in the morning sun and Alexander thinks he looks so very handsome, but Burr is angry with him and while he’s trying to think of what he did this time, there’s gunfire. Alexander looks down and his shirt is stained red, and then the pain comes — he’s in the dirt, wheezing, but he watches Burr slowly walk the ten paces towards him — he knows he’s in a dream because in reality Burr had tried to run to him, struggled and fought to get to him — but _this_ Burr smiles when he sees Alexander in pain and bleeding out, that evil savage beast—

“My darling,” Burr says, fake saccharine sweet, kneeling in the dirt next to Alexander and cupping his face in his hands so he looks at him.

“Burr.” Alexander tries to sit up, but he’s so tired, he could sleep forever…

Burr leans in and whispers something in Alexander’s ear — a secret — but he can’t hear it and he cries because he wants to know what Burr said and he wants to touch Burr but he can’t make his arms move and he cries because Burr _hurt_ him and he’s screaming in pain both physical and emotional — he doesn’t know which hurts more, both are killing him — but he manages to grip his gun, press it to Burr’s chest and pull the trigger, and blood splatters at close-range—

“Alex!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Alex, you need to wake up.”

“ _Burr,_ please—”

“It’s me, I’m here.”

Alexander opens his eyes and he’s in their dark London room, not the Weehawken shoreline, and Burr is alive — wonderfully _alive_ — and looking so _so_ worried. His heart slows it’s rapid-fire pace, and he tells himself _it was only a dream, it was only a dream, never again will we be enemies._

Burr brushes back Alexander’s sweaty hair. “That’s good. Take deep breaths.” He pulls him close so he rests on his chest, holds him sweet and dear and sure. “It’s okay, my Alex.”

“It’s not,” Alexander says. “I dreamt that you shot me and that I shot you and you _died,_ Burr.”

“Nonsense.” Burr moves Alexander’s head so his ear is over where his heart is, and Alexander hears it _thump thump_ strong and steady. “See? I’m fine. And so are you. Everyone is fine.”

But the nightmare still has him in thrall, a breath away from death, it follows him—

“That’s what my mother said too, before she died,” Alexander mumbles, incoherently, choking on a sob, and he hears his mother’s promise, _it’ll be okay._

“Nothing is okay, everyone dies, everyone leaves me—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Burr promises and he’s a goddamn fool — he should know better than anyone that people die—

—but when Burr whispers nonsense promises, he allows himself to believe it.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Burr doesn’t mention Alexander’s nightmare, nor what his unconscious mind conjured up, and he doesn’t mention anything about his dead mother, either.

In fact, he acts like nothing significant happened the day before.

Typical Burr.

“We’re going to see my friend, Jeremy,” Burr announces over breakfast. “You’ll like him.” He seems unpleased with that fact, grimacing, his mouth set into a harsh line.

“So that brings you to the total of what, five friends?” Alexander counts them off. “There’s this Jeremy guy, me, Van Ness, Eliza, and if you include your daughter…”

“You think you’re so clever.”

“Sure do.”

But Alexander has to admit he’s impressed when he finds out that not only has Burr managed to make a friend in London, but he’s befriended Jeremy _Bentham_ , famed political philosopher and genius — Alexander can’t help but admire him even though he wrote criticism of American political theory. Bentham has a likeable air to him, cordial, easy-going. He’s older than Alexander, but he has all the vigor of a young man and then some, and he’s quite handsome with sharp angular features and charming debonair.

A flare of jealousy takes Alexander by surprise when Bentham bypasses Burr’s handshake and pats him on the back, and then Burr smiling in return and greeting him just as friendly, before awkwardly clearing his throat and responding, “I’ve been busy.”

Bentham flits his eyes to Alexander, and then back to Burr. “I imagine so,” Bentham says, grinning at Burr like they’ve got some stupid inside joke.

Alexander suddenly feels very self-conscious, and left out. It gets worse when Bentham ushers them inside to his drawing room, chatting with Burr as they go. Seeing Burr so comfortable, Alexander realizes that Burr wasn’t as miserably lonely without him as he had thought. Burr was getting over him, that _liar_ , and it’s all Jeremy Bentham’s fault. He’s ready to make an excuse to leave, but then they sit — Alexander and Burr together on a sofa, Bentham across from them — and Bentham turns his attentions to him, finally, now that he’s been stingy with Burr.

“You must be Alexander,” Bentham says before Burr can even introduce them. “I recognized you immediately from Burr’s description.”

Bentham shakes Alexander’s hand heartily. A bit _too_ heartily.

“Uh, yes, that’s me.” Alexander feels warm as Bentham leans back in his chair, making eyes at Alexander. He isn’t used to men looking at him so openly salacious. It’s flattering, but Bentham’s attention is kind of overwhelming. He wets his lips, mouth having gone dry. “How did Burr describe me?”

“He said you have a pretty face,” Bentham says, smiling, eyes twinkling like polished onyx stone. “He also told me you have a nice ass.”

“ _Oh._ ” That is interesting. Alexander looks to Burr, who appears to be just as embarrassed as him.

“I did _not_ say that,” Burr says, surly. Alexander imagines that Burr regrets introducing them.

“He totally did,” Bentham says. He winks. “And I have to say that I agree. I checked out your ass while you were on my doorstep. You are extremely good looking. Although, Burr didn’t mention how dreamy your eyes are.”

Alexander is speechless. Next to him, Burr mutters under his breath, “Don’t encourage him.” He sounds a bit annoyed — could he be jealous that Bentham is flirting with him?

“I think he deserves it,” Bentham says, then sotto voice to Alexander, “Don’t listen to Burr.”

Alexander has decided that he quite likes this Bentham fellow.

Bentham calls for his housekeeper, who comes in with a tray with wine and glasses, and pours them all a generous serving; first Bentham, then Alexander, and then Burr. She exchanges a not-too-innocent look with Burr, who gives her one back — one that Alexander recognizes that he’s _interested_ in her, sexually. Burr eyes follow her as she goes, only noticing that Alexander is glaring at him when he doesn’t have the woman to gape at anymore. He doesn’t bother to look guilty. Jerk.

“So, Alexander,” Bentham says, swirling wine in his glass. “I didn’t think I would get the pleasure of meeting you. The last time I spoke with Burr, he thought that you never wanted to see him again.”

“The stubborn idiot took a ship to see me,” Burr says. “He’s always driven by impulse.”

“Wait.” Alexander tears his gaze away from Burr, to Bentham. “He talked about me?”

“Oh, yes. He thought that everything was ruined forever. Very dramatic,” Bentham says. “But here you are! That’s so _romantic,_ crossing the ocean to be with your lover _._ Glorious. So—,” he claps his hands together, “have you fucked?”

Burr squirms in his seat. So does Alexander. Bentham looks beyond pleased with himself.

“Wow, you’re direct.” Alexander isn’t a prude, but he’s never spoken to anyone so straightforward about sex, especially about a particularity of it that’s considered taboo. However, Bentham clearly doesn’t mind two men _together,_ and it seems as though he partakes in it himself.

“It is none of your business what we’ve done,” Burr says, which just proves that they have gotten down and dirty. Alexander kicks his foot to tell him to hush, but Bentham just laughs, big and loud.

“I’m so happy for you,” Bentham says, and he sounds genuinely happy for their union. “Do you find it any different than with a woman? Ladies are nice, but there’s nothing like the touch of a man. Or certain parts of a man, if you know what I mean.” Bentham licks his lips. They’re tinted dark from wine. He lets out a sigh and smiles, like he’s thinking of something pleasant — it isn’t difficult to hazard a guess _what_ he’s thinking of — and reclines in his chair.

“I don’t see why one preference is more ridiculous than the other,” Bentham continues. “I believe in liberty for all modes of sexual gratification. Why shouldn’t one indulge as long as there is consent?” He takes a long drink of his wine. “Sodomy is not harmless, but in fact, is very pleasurable to all participants involved. If it was truly _wrong_ it wouldn’t feel so wonderful.” A pause. “Have you tried anal?”

Burr chokes on his wine, sputtering. He pulls out his handkerchief, blotting at the burgundy spots that splattered on his neck cloth, cursing.

“Well,” Alexander says. Alexander drinks to hide his expression — he thinks of Burr opening him up slowly, carefully with his fingers, then pressing his cock inside, filling him — and the opposite, making Burr writhe and _beg_ for Alexander to fuck him, ahh…

“No, then,” Bentham says, sounding mildly disappointed. “Oral then? It’s so wonderful. Burr, you’re great at sex, and Alexander looks like he’s good at it too.”

Alexander shifts in his seat. When did it get so warm in here?

“Thank you.” Alexander blushes, holds back on saying _I am great at sex._ He adds, “but Burr spends most of his time whoring.”

“I fuck you plenty,” Burr retorts. He’s half-correct — they go at it often, but he could never have enough sex with Burr.

“You could _try_ to pretend I don’t disgust you,” Alexander says. Burr says he likes him, and he does things that make it believable — but then he doses up on opium so he doesn’t have to _deal_ with Alexander or what it means that he likes him.

Burr sighs. “You don’t disgust me.”

“You don’t even want to use your mouth on me because it freaks you out.”

“Hamilton!” Burr shouts, and good, he’s mad. Now they can resolve something.

“Jesus, Burr,” Bentham exclaims, “just suck the man off! Pleasuring with your mouth is _exquisite._ You don’t have to be scared. You like men, you tried to kiss me—“

“What?” Alexander couldn’t have heard that correctly — Burr, kissing a man who isn’t him? Burr hardly wants to kiss him, half of the time. He looks from Bentham — who looks uncomfortable for the first time all afternoon — to Burr, and Burr doesn’t even try to explain, or lie, and Alexander _knows_ it’s true.

It makes it hurt more, somehow.

“More wine?” Bentham asks, breaking the horrible silence. He tops off all their glasses and thankfully changes the subject, talking with Alexander about politics while Burr works on finishing the bottle of wine.

 

* * *

 

Alexander doesn’t speak to him on the way back.

They take a carriage to the inn — they’re drunk and tired, having spent hours at Bentham’s because he insisted they stayed for supper. Alexander didn’t mind, he spent the evening charming Bentham, which made Burr mad with jealousy but he didn’t say, but he got tetchy and drank too much and took the corner piece of cake Alexander had wanted. Burr’s bad mood continues after they leave, but the joke is on him because Alexander can be angry, too. Burr does try to start up a conversation in the carriage, but Alexander looks out the window and pretends not to hear him. He figures Burr didn’t want to talk to them that badly because he doesn’t try to initiate a conversation again, however, Burr’s dejected reflection in the window speaks more than words could.

They go up to their room, Burr taking the stairs at his own speed and is already inside by the time Alexander makes it to the second floor huffing and puffing, rubbing the pain in his side.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Alexander says, pushing past Burr through the door.

“So now you can speak.” Burr slams the door, takes off his jacket, loosens his cuffs. “I thought you talked to Bentham so much that you swallowed your tongue.”

“Jealous that he liked me?” Alex flips his hair over his shoulder. “He thinks I’m stunning _and_ brilliant.”

“He’s crazy, like you.”

“He would treat me right, unlike you.”

“Shut the goddamn fuck up.” Burr lights up one the expensive cigars he bought downtown, smokes it in the middle of their room, not bothering to go over to the open window. “You acted like a fool. An embarrassment.”

“Me? An embarrassment?” Alexander laughs. “You were the one sulking because you got all awkward about us being together.”

“What?” Smoke clouds Burr’s face as it curls around him and stinks up their room. “ _You’re_ the one who’s offended that everything isn’t about you and that I don’t praise your cock like it’s God’s gift to mankind.”

Alexander glowers at him. “You could, like, make it more believable that you’re attracted to me,” he says, “but you’re distracted by everyone else, even Bentham—”

“I fucked his housekeeper, by the way.”

“I _knew_ it!”

“She hiked up her dress and I fucked her over the sofa.” Burr exhales, smoke floating towards Alexander. “She’s a fun girl.”

“Apparently you think Bentham is fun too, since you kissed him.”

Burr sighs. “We didn’t. I didn’t.” He shrugs. “He stopped me before I could.”

“But you wanted to.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Burr goes, “Yes.”

Alexander wants to cry — anger and wine and betrayal aren’t a good mix.

“He should’ve let you,” Alexander says, quick, sharp. “Maybe you’d suck _his_ cock since you’re so enamored by him.”

Burr puts out his cigar, leaves it on the windowsill. Perhaps the phallic symbolism is too much for him.

“You’re being unreasonable, Alexander,” Burr says, clear and serious, as though he thinks Alexander is a moron.

“That isn’t the first time you’ve called me that.” Among other things Burr has called him.

“Because you _are_ unreasonable,” Burr says.

Alexander does feel unreasonable with the way he looks at him.

Burr shakes his head and sighs, as if clearing cluttered thoughts jammed inside. “Bentham and I are only friends. My desire to kiss him was…it was a lapse of judgment. But you can’t be rude because I don’t…that I don’t use my mouth on you.” He licks his mouth — Alexander likes to think it’s impulsive. “You said I didn’t have to do that if I didn’t want to.”

“I did say that.” Alexander sits in the chair. Or, flops. He’s tired. He knows he’s being pushy but Burr is being so frustrating. It isn’t really about Burr not wanting to suck him off, but more about the wavering distance that Burr puts between them.

“But you don’t want to do it because you’re _afraid,_ that’s why you keep fucking women—”

“I fuck women because I like them,” Burr says.

Alexander won’t whine. He won’t.

He does. He blames the wine.

“But I don’t _like_ it when you’re with someone else,” he says, and oh no, that’s too much, he hadn’t meant to say that — but Burr reacts at once, equal parts surprised and furious.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter to you if I was with women,” Burr says. “You _said_ it was okay—”

“You should have known I didn’t mean it!” Alexander yells. “I don’t care what you do, not really, but I do when you do it just to get away from me, like I’m some mistake you can obliterate. Like you can make yourself not want me.”

Burr looks at him — really looks at him — and sighs.

“I’m tired, Alexander,” Burr says. “There’s nothing more to say.”

But there is.

“Why did you want to kiss Bentham?” Alexander asks, because he wants to know and he doesn’t want to know — he doesn’t know which outweighs the other, and he’s always been a risk-taker, so.

“Because you weren’t here,” Burr says, simply, and more endearing that he’s been all evening, finally giving an answer that isn’t cagey. Alexander wishes it were more complex than that. He could accept _I was curious_ or _I was horny_ and maybe even _I found him irresistible_ — those are base feelings. But to do this, replacing him in a way, pains him deep, a throb to his side.

“I’m here now,” Alexander says, quiet, fragile, please don’t hurt me again—

Burr turns away from him, he can’t _see_ him.

Burr moves and Alexander knows what he’s going for. Of course, Burr doesn’t want to care — he wants to forget this conversation into that euphoric oblivion. Take the easy way out.

But Burr underestimates Alexander’s agility, and Alexander gets to Burr’s not-so-secret hiding place and grabs the half-empty bottle of laudanum first. Burr tries to get it from him, but Alexander whacks him in the shin with his cane, and Burr curses and hops on one foot while Alexander out-maneuvers him and throws the bottle out the open window.

Burr runs up beside him just in time to see the bottle crash into a hundred pieces down below on the street. _Good riddance_ , Alexander thinks, and then both of them turn to look at each other.

“I’ll just get more,” Burr says.

“I know.” Alexander shuts the window, as if he’s finalizing his rebellion. “I can’t stop you from doing what you want. Or what you don’t want. I can’t make you be someone you aren’t.” He pauses. “I can’t make you accept us.”

“Alex…”

“Stop. Don’t _Alex_ me.” He won’t make peace now. He wants to be angry.

And Burr doesn’t try to talk to him again, so, he lets it be.

Alexander has always heard the advice _don’t go to bed angry_ — don’t let yourself go to sleep without resolution because you don’t know what tomorrow will bring — but he rarely goes by it. He and Eliza went to bed for years with unresolved anger (he had no anger for her, only for himself; her anger was only for him), and he’s gone to sleep with half-finished arguments with Burr that they continue the next day. Some things deserve anger. No forgiveness for forgiveness' sake.

 

* * *

 

They go to bed angry, not talking, backs turned to each other and with as much space between them as possible without falling off the bed.

But in the middle of the night they silently forgive each other — Burr gets closer, and then Alexander gets closer, and then Burr rolls over and curls against Alexander’s back, and Alexander reaches for Burr’s hand and kisses his knuckles.

Forgiven.

“I know you’re here,” Burr whispers, feather-soft against his neck. “I just—”

“Shh.” Alexander kisses his hand again. “I know.”

They don’t want to argue, so, they rest.

 

* * *

 

They have no anger for each other in the morning. They fall out of sleep together, aware when the other begins to stir. The first sight Alexander has is Burr — he still has his eyes closed but he’s smiling — Alexander kisses him, slow and sweet, until Burr opens his eyes.

“Good morning,” Burr says through a yawn.

“G’morning.” Alexander yawns too — those things seem to be contagious. He continues kissing until Burr wakes up enough to kiss him back. They don’t apologize. This is more their style of saying _sorry_. Alexander thinks it’s appropriate because they both weren’t wrong.

And Burr looks especially handsome in the morning. Even with crusty sleep gunk in the corners of his eyes.

And Alexander feels especially taunting. Burr likes it when he’s charmingly vexing.  

“I like your friend, Bentham.” Alexander kisses where Burr’s jaw twitches. “He is…”

“Loud?” Burr suggests. “Annoying? Pushy?”

“Yes.”

“He reminds me of you.” Burr does smile, then. “I thought you knew. That’s why I introduced you…”

Oh. _Oh._

“Is that why you tried to kiss him?” Alexander asks.

“Not really.” Burr shakes his head. “No. I was curious if it felt the same with him as it did with you.”

“An experiment.” Alexander moves his head so Burr can kiss a trail down his neck. “And your conclusion?”

Burr pushes the collar of Alexander’s nightshirt aside so he can lick his clavicle. “You’re better.”

“You’re damn right.”

“Arrogant bastard.”

“Mmm, keep talking dirty to me.” Alexander nips at Burr’s earlobe. “Please, Burr,” he says, purring his name. “Tell me something filthy.”

“You were right.”

“Damn, don’t say that, you’re gonna make me come so hard—”

“I’m serious,” Burr says. He places his hand on Alexander’s chest so he focuses on him. “You were right about what you said, that I’m…apprehensive about us and what—”

Alexander kisses him hard, putting his hands to the sides of his face (his beautiful face) to shut him up.

“Alex,” Burr says, his lips moving against Alexander’s. “I’m not ashamed, but it’s been years since I’ve been in a relationship and this is new for me and—”

Alexander kisses him again.

“I don’t accept your apology,” he says, roughly, matching how he’s kissing Burr.

“I’m _not_ apologizing,” Burr says. “I’m giving you an explanation.”

“I don’t want that, either.” Why complicate things more?

Burr presses his face to Alexander’s neck. “I like you, Alexander Hamilton.”

“I know,” Alexander says, “you plonk.” He knows Burr likes him, but it’s still unbelievable to him. Aaron Burr, thoughtful, caring, passionate — all of this from the same man who shot him.

“I won’t fuck anyone else.” Burr moves down Alexander’s body, pulling down the worn blanket as he goes. He kisses Alexander’s stomach through his shirt and then looks up at Alexander. “Just you.”

“Not necessary.” Truthfully, Alexander kind of likes that Burr sleeps around and that he’s licentious. It’s sexy, but it wouldn’t hurt for a little more attention—

— _like that_ , he thinks as Burr pushes his shirt up and kisses him dangerously low. He holds his breath as Burr kisses him _there,_ and Burr lets out a surprised sound when his body reacts — but Burr doesn’t stop. He rubs his nose at the trail of hair below Alexander’s belly button and ever so slowly runs his hand up Alexander’s stomach, chest, curling his fingers against his neck where Alexander is sure he can feel his pulse racing.

“I’m going to suck you,” Burr says, Alexander has to remember how to breathe as Burr seductively kisses his inner thigh.

“You don’t have to, really,” he says. He does well getting the words out, all things considered, considering Burr is touching him and considering Burr’s mouth is getting closer to his cock and considering he’s hard and considering Burr keeps looking at him like _that._

“I want to,” Burr says, and he sounds convincing — but he is good at duplicity, so Alexander is unsure.

“Seriously, don’t,” Alexander says. “I was a jerk.”

“You were,” Burr agrees. “But I know what I’m doing. I’m not under duress.” He wraps his hand around Alexander tight, strokes and _ah_ if he doesn’t stop that Alexander won’t be able to say _no_. “I know what I want.”

Alexander can’t help but press into Burr’s hand. “And what do you want?”

“You.” Burr kisses Alexander’s hipbone, then where his tummy is softest. His careful, attentive mouth travels higher, until he stops over the ugly, puckered scar adorned against his ribs.

All thoughts leave Alexander, but one. “Burr.”

And Burr dips his head and kisses his scar — tenderness to a brutality, like kissing a cheek that’s been slapped.

“Alex,” Burr says, breathing hot against Alexander’s skin. Alexander runs his hand over Burr’s head — he needs a haircut — and Burr kisses him there again, grazes his teeth over sensitive skin that sends a shiver through Alexander. Burr must notice because he does it again, then splays his fingers against Alexander’s stomach and kisses and licks as his ministrations go lower and lower.

“You really don’t have to,” Alexander says. “You don’t have to —  _ah._ ”

Burr licks him. Briefly, on his length, but it is enough to render him speechless.

“Shut up and let me blow you,” Burr says, then, nicer, “I want to, please…”

Alexander trusts that Burr knows what he wants — Burr wouldn’t do it if he truly didn’t want to. He is quite stubborn, after all.

Burr holds Alexander’s cock in his hand, and his mouth — his wet, warm, wonderful mouth — is inches away. He looks at Alexander’s hardness as though he’s inspecting it. Alexander feels himself stiffen more.

“Impressive, aren’t I?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Burr rubs his thumb over the tip, pushing back the skin over the head.

“You’ve got to put your mouth on me,” Alexander says. “Don’t put it all in at once, though.”

“I _know_ what to do,” Burr says. “I’ve had it done to me a few times.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “It’s different when you’re doing it, you need to—”

Burr takes him in his mouth, tongue pressed against the head, lips closing around him. Alexander squeaks, going silent, and Burr lets out a muffled sound, reacting to his first taste of cock. Alexander hopes it’s a sound of pleasure, for both of their sakes.

Like Alexander thought, Burr tries to take too much too soon, gagging — rookie mistake — and he pulls off. Alexander looks down to where Burr is between his legs. Burr’s lips glisten wet, matching the shine on the head of his cock.

“Do you like it?” Alexander asks. He prays Burr says yes.

“It’s, uh.” Burr licks his lips. “Hmm.”

Ambiguity. Alexander tries to remember the first time he sucked cock — it’s a strange taste for sure, but it’s a penis so it’s expected — but it’s definitely something that grows on you.

After a moment, Burr goes back for more, and that’s answer enough.

Burr is awkward at it at first, but he’s persistent as Alexander imagined he’d be when he allowed himself to fantasize about this. He quickly learns what to do with his teeth and how to use his tongue and to pay attention to what makes Alexander moan. However, Alexander thinks anything Burr does would be fantastic because it’s _Burr._ He looks down and has to cover his face with his arm because it’s too much seeing Burr with his mouth on him and his eyes closed like he’s enjoying it. Burr focuses mostly at the head, licking at the ridge, then a broad swipe of his tongue at the slit — he makes another noise of surprise or pleasure when he licks up a drop of precome that leaks out. Alexander moans, letting Burr know that it feels good. Burr gets the message because he does it again, taking him into his mouth further and putting his hand around the part of his shaft that isn’t in his mouth.

“Fuck, Burr.” Alexander grips the bed sheets, cursing when Burr lets his cock slip out his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Burr asks. He pumps Alexander’s cock quick, twisting his hand down at the base and sucking at the tip, rendering Alexander speechless. Burr gets more confident, flicking his tongue at him. “Talk to me, Alex.”

“I’m fucking _fantastic,_ but not if you stop,” Alexander replies, arching his back. “Please, _fuck_ , you’re doing so good—”

Burr smirks and there’s that roguish glint in his eye — that horrible, despicable man — and lowers his head back down. Instead of putting his lips around him again, he licks a stripe up his length, base to tip, then laps at the head, making all sorts of wet, sloppy sounds. Alexander moans, his hips bucking forward, his body wanting that pleasure, please _please_ more, he needs it—

Burr holds him down, one hand on each boney hip, and takes him back in his mouth. He goes deeper this time, Alexander can feel him breath out through his nose. “Fuck,” Alexander moans, “Burr, oh god, _Burr,_ I’m almost there, please—”

It’s so wonderful that he doesn’t want it to end, but Burr drives him to blissful ecstasy and he shouts Burr’s name as a warning, his orgasm creeping up and taking him by surprise and spills into Burr’s warm, inviting mouth. Burr ends up swallowing some of it, Alexander feeling him around him, but then Burr draws off his cock and spits the rest of his load on his stomach.

When Alexander can think of something other than his dick, he sits up on his elbows to look at Burr. He seems to be as amazed as Alexander feels, but there’s a trace of uncertainty there, him sitting on his knees and unable to meet Alexander’s gaze. Alexander, however, can’t look away from him — his mouth is messy, spit and come on his chin, and his shirt tented with his erection.

“That was _wonderful_ ,” Alexander says, lying back, still too numb-limbed. He thinks that Burr could use a bit of praise for sucking him so well, and on his first try too. “Did you like it?”

Burr swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well,” he begins. “It’s different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

Burr clears his throat. His voice is rough, like he’s been sucking cock. Because he _has._ He’s been sucking Alexander’s.

“Good, I think.” Burr bites his lip. “I’d do it again,” he says, his eyes dark, wanting…

Alexander motions for Burr to lie next to him. He does, groaning when his hardness brushes against Alexander’s hip. Alexander kisses him, coaxing, licks inside his mouth. Tastes himself. Moans.

“See?” Alexander says. “I have good ideas.”

Burr will never admit he’s right, but he kisses him, filthy. “Talk less.”

Alexander does talk less, his mouth too busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes times!!
> 
> First of all, look at this amazing art that shamesawconquer drew of the scene where Burr kisses Hamilton for the first time!!! It's lovely and exactly what I envisioned --> [here](http://shamesawconquer.tumblr.com/post/154734121341/aaron-takes-defibrillates-myself-with-this-fic)! I have emotions.
> 
> \- Hamilton borrows the dueling pistols from John Church. Which were also used by Philip.  
> \- Burr really did collect coins! He writes about it in his journals  
> \- Remember that Bentham was cool with two guys being together. Some of his dialogue I took directly from things he wrote. [Here is a tl;dr version](https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.theguardian.com/books/2014/jun/26/sexual-irregularities-morality-jeremy-bentham-review) of the writing I linked a few chapters ago. Also, [here is another article that talks about how Bentham suggested that Jesus was gay](http://qspirit.net/jeremy-bentham-homosexuality-jesus/).  
> \- Which I didn't know any of this at all until I went to research Bentham to put in the story because Burr hung out when him when he was in his Europe exile.  
> \- But...sorry about all the angst? You know me. I don't make things happy for them easily. Conflicting feelings! Baggage!  
> \- Also, this is the first time I have written lams (even as backstory) into a fic.
> 
> Thanks for all the nice comments and messages and kudos! I appreciate all of them. You can always contact me at [Tumblr](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com)


	20. Aaron X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, part 3.
> 
> Alexander Hamilton may be his ruin, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in over a month, but here is a nearly 16,000 word update. Sorry not sorry. I'm not even surprised anymore.
> 
> Many thanks to bluecarrot for talking to me about this and looking it over.
> 
> In this chapter, there is some mild drug use. And conversation about homophobia that was typical for this time period.

Alexander Hamilton may be his ruin, after all.

Aaron’s downfall, his Achilles heel, his blind-spot. Hamilton has always found his way. It’s easy to underestimate how that wild-eyed immigrant steals away with whatever he wants and leaves a trail of victims in his wake. But at least this is a sweeter ruin than their first liaison. Hamilton drives him to madness, makes his heart rat-a-tat — a knock to be let inside or a rapid gunfire _bang bang._ Better than opium, and more addictive, too — Aaron gets jittery if he’s without Hamilton for too long, the more he gets the more he wants. Addicted to his mouth and his clever whispered words moaned into his ear and how his skin glows when the last of the day’s sunlight shines on him. Aaron is unequivocally infatuated with him.

So, he is ruined.

He fusses but he relents to Hamilton, always. He likes to make Hamilton smile, he likes to make him feel good, and he _wants_ him, oh god, he wants him so badly — and _ruined_ isn’t the proper word but it feels like damnation when it’s something out of his control, something like falling for Hamilton.

 

* * *

 

He tells this to Theo, uses those words _falling for_ and _I don’t know what to do,_ but he looks over to Hamilton. He’s near the window reading, twirling hair around his finger, mouth open in interest at what he’s reading, and Aaron realizes it’s false, he isn’t — he doesn’t — not with him. He just likes Hamilton very very very much. It isn’t like it was with Theodosia, how could he even think that or compare? So, he burns the letter into ash until he tastes it in his mouth.

And then he goes and kisses Hamilton instead, on those lovely, parted lips. It catches Hamilton by surprise but Aaron feels when he smiles and returns the gesture.

“What was that for?” asks Hamilton.

Aaron tucks the finger-coiled strand of hair behind Hamilton’s ear. It falls back, stubborn as the man it belongs to.

“Nothing,” he says, because it doesn’t matter what it means, only that it’s happening.

 

* * *

 

He is, admittedly, quite fond of Hamilton. He doesn’t complain much when Hamilton drags him from a cozy, laudanum-induced sleep with plans for the day, because he’s happy as long as Hamilton’s plans include him. Hamilton doesn’t really have a choice, as he’s his only source of amusement; Hamilton doesn’t do well on his own.

Aaron ignores the intrusive thought, _worry,_ of what will happen when he isn’t Hamilton’s singular focus. He ignores it, like how Hamilton ignores that he got more laudanum like he said he would.

After filling with breakfast downstairs (eggs, toast, and sausage — which of course Hamilton makes a dirty joke about; it makes Michelle laugh, and Aaron has to tell him that she doesn’t think he’s funny, she only laughed because she’s a whore and she has a filthy sense of humor), they go into the heart of London where the Thames winds its way through the city.

The river is a massive, filthy monster. It’s dark and murky, and all the rivers flow into it, dumping filth and carrying it through the city until it gets to the North Sea where it goes out and away. Aaron wonders if some of the filth ever crosses the Atlantic and reaches America. The colonists before them traveled that same ocean, after all…

It rains. In London, it’s always raining, or about to rain, or feels-like-rain. Hamilton had forgot the umbrella even though Aaron told him to grab it, but Hamilton says, “I’ve already got a cane, I couldn’t carry an umbrella too.” Aaron replies that Hamilton has _two_ hands and they’re fine because he didn’t shoot either of those, but Hamilton walks off towards the row of shops, and Aaron has no choice but to follow.

Hamilton spends money like a man who hasn’t always had it. He’s poor at managing his finances — an irony, having been the treasury secretary. Unthinking, as though he won’t get a chance to use it, or someone will take it away from him. Buying extravagant clothes, and the best of everything. Maybe it has to do with his upbringing. Aaron knows enough of his background to know that he had a very different childhood than him. No silver spoon for the boy from the Caribbean.

But then again, Aaron has no right to criticize because he’s terrible at keeping money in his pockets, too. He isn’t even living in his own home because he had to pay a debt back to Hamilton — he couldn’t stand to be indebted to Hamilton any longer, not when Hamilton was struggling to support his family, and not when he thought of that time when he was in need, when desolate emptiness made life not worth living. It was years ago, and he wandered the streets at night, spent the last of the money he had with him for a go with a whore, and he walked until his feet hurt and was uptown. He laughed, realizing that Hamilton lived not far away — they weren’t completely enemies, not yet, but they weren’t exactly friendly either — but he knocked on Hamilton’s door because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He didn’t expect Hamilton to answer the door, but he did, and he didn’t expect for Hamilton to _listen_ to him either, but he had put his arm around his shoulders and brought him inside, asked for Eliza to get him a hot cup of tea. He sure as hell didn’t expect Hamilton to come up with the exact amount of funds he needed, and then some.   He knew Hamilton couldn’t afford it but he told Aaron, _we were — are friends…_

But Hamilton is unselfish with his money, and spends freely on those he cares for. Hamilton empties his pockets at the shops while they hide from the rain. He buys a quill for Aaron because he split the one he borrowed from him — he always presses down too hard on paper — and a box of nice cigars, even though he hates the smell of them — but he hates them less than his pipe, he says. He spends a ridiculous amount of time picking out gifts for his children, selecting something different and individual for each one. Toys for the middle children, a soft blanket for baby Rita, lace gloves for Angie, a book of case law for Al.

Aaron tells him that Al won’t like the book, but he shrugs and buys it anyway.

Hamilton never takes his advice. He lets Hamilton do whatever, and picks out a few things for Theo. At least he doesn’t have to split his pampering and can spoil her all the more.

They take all their purchased items to the post office. The worker shows them to the backroom to fix their packages and then he goes to tend to some business out front, leaving Aaron and Hamilton alone.

Hamilton is still talking about the book for Al, as though he’s trying to justify it. “It’s a practical gift,” he says, writing a note to be included in the package. He pauses for a moment, and then continues scribbling. “He’s due to take the bar soon. He’s getting some experience by looking over our practice while we’re gone, but that’s just taking notes for clients until we return.”

Aaron looks over Hamilton’s shoulder and gets a glimpse of the note he’s writing. Hamilton hesitates at the closing, and then hastily writes, _With love, Alexander H,_ folds the letter, puts it with the package for it to be sent together.

Aaron frowns. The formal sign-off sounds out of place since Hamilton is so warm with his children. But it is no secret that Hamilton and his namesake aren’t that close. The senior Alexander is loud, outgoing, unforgiving — while the junior Alexander is quiet, reserved, considerate. Perhaps the junior is just as brilliant as his father, but he doesn’t need to show it off. Or maybe, he doesn’t bother, because Hamilton is impossible to surpass and he’d always be compared to his father.

Aaron understands. He was named after his father, who died and left behind his name and expectations. Aaron never knew him, but he thinks that he would have made him proud.

But Al Hamilton has done okay, too. From the times Aaron has been around him at the Hamilton home and when he’s been around the office, he’s a pleasant and smart young man. Aaron thinks that the boy doesn’t get told that enough.

“I would have been happy if Theo wanted to be with him,” Aaron says. That’s honest; he would never be truly okay with his child courting, too worried about her heart, but Al would’ve been a nice choice. He has some of the best parts of Hamilton.

He cannot be as certain of Angie Hamilton. He doesn’t know anything about her other than what Theo has told him. At home, the girl keeps mostly to herself, although during his first visits after the duel, she would give him sharp, critical looks that are not too unlike Hamilton’s.

“He’ll like the book, Alexander,” Aaron says. “He’ll send you a letter thanking you, and then he’ll read it. He will do well, as you wish for him.”

“I expect nothing less from him.” Hamilton runs his hand over the cover of the book, his voice faltering. “I wasn’t as hard on him, or the other boys, after Philip… I was so strict with Philip. I outlined schedules for his entire day, I had his entire life outlined already, and, well.”

He shakes his head, looks down at the ground. When he returns his gaze to Aaron, his eyes are shining.

“Al was ten when he asked that we stopped calling him Junior. That was after I…after I fucked everything up with my family, so I understand why but, _fuck_ , that hurt, Burr.” He bites his lip, as though to keep himself from crying. “I want him to do well. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to…to have to struggle to have a chance in this cruel world. I want to make everything possible for him, but more than anything I want him to be happy.”

Aaron wants to kiss him. Kiss away all of Hamilton’s sadness, kiss him until he’s happy again. He wants to make Hamilton happy — god, that is a wonderful thing, to want to make someone happy. To wish it for them, just because, although it isn’t entirely altruistic because there’s an infectious joy he gets in return when Hamilton is happy. He hasn’t felt that joy in such a long time…

He could kiss him. They’re alone. The post worker is busy in the front room, and the window faces an empty alley. Nobody would see. He wouldn’t hesitate if they were safe in their room at the inn, but the danger of it makes him pause. _Danger_. It doesn’t feel like danger, although the exhilaration makes his heart beat just as fast. Society doesn’t accept men like them. They imprison, hang, kill men like them. It’s risky to even think of showing such affections in public but…Alexander is worth it.

Aaron lightly brushes his lips against Hamilton’s — his heart is beating so fast he thinks it’ll explode — and then pulls back to see Hamilton looking at him strangely.

“Oh,” Hamilton says, and he laughs and _good_ he made him happy, and Aaron smiles too. He runs his thumb over Hamilton’s cheek to wipe away a tear, kisses him again.

Hamilton’s eyelashes are damp, making them seem an even darker black. “What are you doing?” His voice is hardly above a whisper. “You’re going to get us caught.”

“You aren’t telling me to stop,” Aaron says, and then kisses Hamilton again, as if to prove a point.

Hamilton smiles against his mouth. “You’re insane.”

He’s kissing Aaron back.

“So are you.”

A noise interrupts them, startling them apart, which is probably for the best, because their kissing had been headed in the direction of not-so-innocent.

 

* * *

 

He likes watching Alexander. He likes to see his presence fill up a room, enliven everything he comes in contact with. His exuberance used to annoy Aaron, but now that he’s with him, he finds it charming. Usually.

They waste time in another shop while it rains, the downpour too heavy to walk through, even with the umbrella that Hamilton bought him to make up for forgetting his back at the inn. Aaron doesn’t mind. The store is full of extravagant women’s clothing, dresses and bodices and frilly lace things.

He buys Hamilton a pretty ribbon for his hair, green silk with a trim on the edge. It costs way more than a single strip of fabric should cost, but he likes spending on Hamilton.

“Who’s that for?” Hamilton asks. He’s standing too close to Aaron. “Your lover?”

“Yes.” Aaron takes his change from the shop girl and smiles. “She gets fussy when I don’t think of her.”

“I think that’s just your excuse to do nice things,” Hamilton says. “Your lover will appreciate the thought. I’m sure she will be very thankful. She might even get on her knees in gratitude.”

“Possibly. But she’s quite selfish. I have to be firm with her.” There’s a thrill of them speaking of their relationship openly, even if in code. He looks to Hamilton, and he seems to be just as excited as him — he’s got that smarmy self-satisfied grin on his face, and Aaron just _knows_ he’s going to say something.

“She likes it when you’re firm, huh?” Hamilton licks his lips. “How hard do you give it to her?”

 _You should know_ , Aaron almost says. He thinks of Hamilton moaning like a whore as he rubs his cock against his.

He looks away from Hamilton.

“Forgive my friend,” he tells the shop girl. “He shouldn’t speak so crudely in front of such a pretty lady.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she says. “It isn’t the worst I’ve heard.”

“That’s terrible, men shouldn’t be nasty to you,” Aaron lowers his voice, “unless you want them to be.”

Hamilton clears his throat. “Your lover might be jealous if they knew you were flirting with someone else.”

He wasn’t flirting — or, he didn’t intend to, but sometimes it just _happens,_ it’s not like he was expecting to fuck her — he’s sure he could get her to bed if he wanted to — but there’s no chance of anything now, because Hamilton scared her off to work in the corner, making herself busy mending a skirt.

Hamilton looks rather pleased with himself. His loose hair swooshes over his shoulder when he turns to walk further into the store, and then looks behind him, as if he expects Aaron to follow him.

Aaron does.

Hamilton browses the nightwear (tucked in the back of the store, too intimate to be openly on display), running his hand over expensive fabrics. Satin, lace, silk, all dyed any color one could want. Aaron would like to see Hamilton wrapped in them — like a gift — and then he’d like to wrap himself up too, tangling with Hamilton, entwined together.

Hamilton picks up a lilac piece, looks at it for a moment, then holds it up for Aaron to see.

“What do you think?” Hamilton asks.

It’s the most beautiful nightgown Aaron has ever seen — pure silk flowing elegantly down. It’s shorter than most nightgowns for women, cut around mid-calf, coupled with a lower-cut front that’s lined with black lace.

“I think it’s not really your color,” Aaron says, wryly. Hamilton glares at him.

“I meant for Eliza, you plonk,” Hamilton says, and he smiles at Aaron in the way that makes Aaron’s heart flutter like a small, trapped bird. His smile grows wider — and Aaron’s heart beats fast, wings struggling to be free — and puts the silky nightdress to himself, as if he were judging the size before trying it on. “However, I think I would look great in it.”

He would, that terrible man. Aaron bites down on the inside of his cheek as he looks at Hamilton with the dress to his body.

“It would look better on Eliza.” Aaron’s mouth is dry. She _would_ look better wearing it, her nice breasts filling it out against the lace, silk draping over her curves that leave little mystery to what’s underneath. “I think…she would look lovely in it.”

Hamilton makes a humming noise. “Mmm. It’d be lovely on the floor, too.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“What?”

Hamilton’s mouth is agape, his brows raised. This is one of the times Aaron should have followed his own advice and talked less.

“I was kidding,” Aaron begins but Hamilton shakes his head.

“No, you weren’t.” Hamilton leans in close and lowers his voice. “Are you attracted to my wife?”

Aaron’s face burns hot. “Well…” he says, his words awkwardly trailing off. He can’t say _no_ because Hamilton would find that as an insult because Eliza is attractive, but he can’t say _yes_ without causing a whole other sort of trouble.

They stare at each other, both waiting the silence out. Hamilton is still holding the nightdress to himself so his cross expression isn’t that intimidating. He’s pretty when he’s mad, or annoyed, or any other feeling, really. Eliza is pretty too, in a subtle, plain sort of way. A different kind of beauty than Alexander’s, but she’s just as lovely. The two of them together makes for something divine.

Aaron has seen the two of them together before: Eliza sitting on Hamilton’s desk with her legs spread and Hamilton thrusting into her, fucking with their clothes pushed out of the way as though passion overcame them and they couldn’t wait. It made him feel strange, it made him _want_ , it made him simultaneously want to press against Eliza and have Hamilton rub against him, it made him want things he couldn’t and wouldn’t admit to himself. For months he wouldn’t allow himself to think of it at all, except in the dark of night when it seemed as it was only him in the world…but even now, when he _has_ Hamilton, he can’t think of it with a clear conscience. He feels guilty, imagining the two of them together in their most intimate moments — it’s different with them, man and wife. They love each other. It makes it better. Aaron had replayed that moment in his mind over and over until it’s become a fantasy, thinking of more — what they look like together with less clothes and what Eliza would look like swallowing around Alexander’s cock and thinking of how Eliza moans in ecstasy when Alexander pounds her until she comes and Alexander spilling inside her, making her even more wet…

“I think Eliza is attractive, yes.” Aaron figures that Hamilton knows, anyway.

Hamilton doesn’t seem to be angry. He chews on his bottom lip. It’s chapped. Aaron knows because he feels it when they kiss.

“And _you_ call me selfish,” Hamilton says, softly.

Aaron feels ashamed.

“I don’t want to come between you and your wife,” he says.

“You already have,” Hamilton says, and it’s true — he’s carrying on an illicit affair with Eliza’s husband. Aaron begins to speak, but Hamilton continues, “However, sometimes that could be okay.”

“What do you mean?”

Hamilton blinks at him. He looks confused for a moment, as though he isn’t even sure what he meant by it, but he smiles and that damned bird is back inside Aaron’s chest.

“It’s okay if you think Eliza is sexy,” Hamilton says. “You’re stating the obvious. It’s not like you’re going to fuck her behind my back, so—”

“Jesus Christ, Hamilton.” That isn’t something _else_ that he needed to add his fantasy, him with Eliza…

“Relax,” Hamilton says, patting Aaron’s cheek, and takes the nightdress up front to purchase it.

He’ll never be able to relax around Hamilton, not ever.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton not only buys the nightgown, but another one that’s just as revealing as the other. He’s quite excited about them, and they make another trip to the post office. Aaron’s mind wanders while Hamilton scribbles a note to Eliza.

Aaron tries not to think of Eliza wearing them, or her modeling them for Hamilton, or Hamilton moving them out of the way so he can go inside her, or Eliza taking them off and leaving them on the floor to wrinkle, or better yet — leaving them wrinkled on the bed while the two rub against them…

“ _Dearest wife,”_ Hamilton reads aloud, and Aaron turns to look at him, distracted from his racy thoughts. _“In this package you’ll find two items to wear in that most sacred place that is the bedroom. Burr helped me pick them out with great diligence. He thinks that you’ll look nice in them—”_

Aaron flushes. “Don’t tell her that.”

Hamilton grins, but continues, “ _Burr is into you, and would like to be in you, too. He comes highly recommended, he has some nice assets—”_

“Alexander!”

“Okay, I didn’t write that last part.” Hamilton shows it to him as proof; however, he did write _he thinks you’ll look nice in them_ and Aaron almost tells Hamilton to start his letter over but…he kind of wants Eliza to know what he thinks, so he doesn’t say anything.

Hamilton finishes the note and attaches it to the package, turns it into the worker who tosses it in the outgoing mail, and then there’s no retreating, now.

 

* * *

 

“Oh! Yes, right there — _fuck,_ that feels so good, _Burr_!”

“Be quiet, everyone can hear you.”

Hamilton closes his eyes and bites his lips, but a moan escapes, loud.

Aaron smiles. He rubs Hamilton harder, up and down his leg, massages into his thigh, pressing against tight spots. He finds a spot that makes Hamilton whine like a puppy when it’s touched, tender and sore, and Aaron digs in hard with his thumbs, squeezing a muscle that’s tense under his hands.

Hamilton lets out a moan that’s near obscene.

“You can’t restrain yourself, can you?” Aaron asks. They’re both down to their shirts, Hamilton a writhing mess laid out on the bed, while Aaron straddles his legs and runs his hands all over his body. Hamilton makes such lovely noises when he’s touched. He runs his hand under Hamilton’s calf — he has nice calves, they always look so defined in his stockings — and Hamilton moans again.

“It’s an impossible task for you to be quiet, isn’t it?”

“But I _hurt_ ,” Hamilton says.

Aaron does feel a little guilty about that. Hamilton has pains that plague him which emanate from that old gunshot wound in his torso, and it makes him walk strangely and cause his hip and legs to ache when he overexerts himself.

“You shouldn’t have pushed yourself,” Aaron says. “I told you we could rest but _no_ , you kept on—”

“It’s the streets. Terrible, unkept cobblestones — oh, higher up please, my thigh.” Hamilton sighs with relief as Aaron does as he asks. He continues his complaints. “I hate it here. I hate England. It’s dirty, it rains all the time, there’s so much walking, and the people are strange. I’m glad we revolted against them. Good riddance, I say.” He shifts. “My hip too, if you would.”

“You’re just trying to make me handsy,” Aaron says, but Hamilton says _please_ and he can’t refuse. He moves Hamilton’s shirt up and realizes that maybe Hamilton’s moans weren’t all purely to do with pain relief. Hamilton smiles smugly, proud of his growing arousal.

Aaron ignores it and massages his hip in circles, pressing so hard he feels bone against his palm.

“I’m just saying,” Hamilton says. “I don’t like it much here.”

Aaron’s throat feels like it’s closing up, suffocated by his own doubts. _It’s not you he hates,_ he tells himself. He tries to not take Hamilton’s complaints personally, but he’s only here because of him and…

He leans in and kisses Hamilton gently on the mouth.

“You don’t like anywhere other than home,” Aaron says, and it’s true. Hamilton didn’t like Virginia, Pennsylvania, or the South, either. He’s a man hard to please, and stuck in his habits. Hamilton opens his mouth with a possible rebuttal, but Aaron moves his hands to his waist and the complaint dissolves into a broken moan.

“Besides,” Aaron says, “it seems as though you enjoy some parts of England. Such as the bakery across the street, as evidenced by your belly—”

“I did not come all the way here to be ridiculed by you.”

“I’m teasing you, dearest Alex.” He likes Hamilton as he is, whose young soldier body has been made soft with sedentary work and his penchant for sweet things and beer, a body marked with scars…

He traces his finger over the newest of his scars, ugly and jagged, and familiar. An imperfection, among his many.

“You aren’t teasing, you’re mean,” Hamilton says. “You’re an awful man, Aaron Burr.”

He’s teasing, too, he hopes—

“You knew that before you were with me. I’m an asshole. My apologies.” He pats Hamilton’s side and lies down next to him. “You’ll be fine.”

Hamilton will be fine. An injured man could not have an erection as grand as the one he has now — thick, hard, curled up towards his stomach. Aaron feels himself stirring. He has been since Hamilton was laid out under him, so pretty.

He puts a hand on Hamilton’s leg, brushes his fingers on his inner thigh, up—

“I could help you with that, too,” Aaron says. “Unless you’re too worn out, old man.”

Hamilton finds a sudden vigor — a miracle! — and moves to rub against Aaron, his hand going to Aaron’s and stroking, and nips at that place on Aaron’s neck that makes him hunger for more.

“I don’t need convincing,” Aaron says when Hamilton strokes him harder and kisses like it’s the only thing that’ll make him well again. “I’ll give you what you want, you needy bastard.”

Aaron works his way downward with kisses and tongue, tasting that wonderful body of his, rubs his nose against the dark hair low on his stomach that trails under his naval. Hamilton quickly begs for more, _please Burr I need—_ but Aaron wants something else, he wants Hamilton impatient for him.

Hamilton swears when Aaron gently bites at the softest part of his belly. He calls him an _evil son-of-a-bitch_ but Aaron just laughs and licks where he bit him. Hamilton whines and complains, couples his curses with _please I need your mouth, you won’t tell me no, will you?_

He won’t. He can’t. Hamilton is so warm and sweet and irresistible. Aaron cups his hand over his length, licks from the base to the tip, and Hamilton makes a noise loud enough that could certainly be heard by anyone passing outside their room — he’s probably overheard through the walls, too. He talks, saying something unimportant, but then Aaron takes him in his mouth and that makes him go quiet, and it quiets the buzz of Aaron’s nerves.

To his surprise, Aaron likes sucking cock. _Really_ likes it. Or — he likes sucking Hamilton’s, at least. He has always thought of blowjobs as an act of submission, but there’s something powerful about it, having the most delicate part of Hamilton in his control, where just a flick of his tongue makes Hamilton tremble. He likes it when he makes Hamilton gasp for breath, clutch at the sheets, grind his heels into the mattress, overcome with _want._

More surprisingly, he likes the act, too — he supposes that he is a terrible sinner. That’s acceptable though, because he likes the warmth and fullness of Hamilton in his mouth and he likes the way Hamilton tries to hold back from coming and, blushing, he thinks of how he likes the taste of his release…

He feels Hamilton’s cock twitch in his mouth.

“Feels good,” Hamilton softly says, his hand touching Aaron’s shoulder. “Burr.”

Once, when he had Hamilton whimpering and gasping, Hamilton said _Eliza_ instead — Aaron remembers it, his eyes were closed and the name was a whisper. Aaron didn’t think much of it, until Hamilton apologized for it later.

Aaron pulls off, looks up at Hamilton. Goddamn, he’s stunning. Face flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, sweaty.

“Why’d you stop?” Hamilton reaches down, rubs his fingers over Aaron’s damp chin, rolls his bottom lip. Aaron licks, then bites at the pad of his thumb.

“Distracted,” Aaron says. He kisses Hamilton’s thighs, where he was massaging them earlier. He grins when Hamilton thrusts his hips forward, and he takes Hamilton back into his mouth, taking his cock careful and slow. Hamilton lets out a strangled noise when he closes his lips around him and sucks as he drags up, licks at the ridge with his tongue, licks the head at the slit where he’s leaking salty Alex-specific flavor.

Aaron swallows, goes down for more.

He’s hard, aching and ignored. He rubs himself against the bed and the roughness of the over-washed sheets kind of hurts but any friction is a relief. Hamilton doesn’t notice, too occupied with getting his dick sucked. Aaron breathes though his nose and puts Hamilton’s cock inside his cheek. It’s something he picked up from a whore, he remembers it felt wonderful, warm soft wet cheek pressed to the head of his cock. Hamilton must think it feels great too, because he moans loudly and Aaron knows he’s close. It’s messier this way, but Aaron has always enjoyed messy sex. He puts a hand on Hamilton’s shaft and concentrates on the head that’s pressed inside his cheek, licking where it’s swollen — and he’s nearly there himself by cock in his mouth and rubbing off against the bed — and then Hamilton lets out a groan and spills in his mouth.

Hamilton is still breathing hard when he pushes Aaron onto his back and scoots down between Aaron’s legs. It’s a relief to both when Hamilton takes him in his mouth.

Aaron runs his hands through Hamilton’s hair as he sucks him expertly. “Alex.”

Hamilton moans around him, and shudders.

 

* * *

 

Aaron is relaxed, happy — a healthy dose of laudanum is to thank for that — but Hamilton is restless next to him.

“What is it?” Aaron wants to sleep, but Hamilton has something to say. He always has something to say.

Hamilton turns over so he’s facing him.

“Am I doing anything wrong?” Hamilton asks.

“Why would you say that?”

Hamilton sighs. Is he crying? It’s too dark to tell — the only light in the room is the moonlight, shining in Hamilton’s hair. It’s almost as though he could reach out and grab it, take the moonlight away from Hamilton—

“Because you’re still sleeping with other people—”

“Women,” Aaron corrects. “And we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, and that would be fine on it’s own but you’re still on the laudanum and it makes things more complicated.”

Aaron is too tired, the opium wrapping him in a too comforting embrace for him to think of this clearly. If he were more conscious, he would say that it isn’t complicated and Hamilton is overthinking this, or he would kiss Hamilton because that always seems to satisfy him, but sleep is coming for him fast.

“It isn’t about you,” Aaron says. “I’m…damaged.”

“Me too,” Hamilton says, immediately.

“No.” Maybe — probably — Hamilton is, but Aaron doesn’t wish that on him, he doesn’t wish that on anyone he…

“Get the moonlight out of your hair,” Aaron says, and falls asleep, thinking of him.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember his nightmare but when he wakes his first thought is _Alex_ , and beyond the panic and urge to vomit, he needs to make sure Hamilton is there—

—and Hamilton is there, next to him, sleeping peacefully.

He checks to make sure, putting his ear to Hamilton’s chest like he would to a seashell to hear the ocean. There it is, strong and steady, _thump thump,_ repeat.

He leaves Hamilton in bed and goes to the window, opens it, leans on the sill and lights his cigar. He’s shaking so much that he nearly burns himself on the flint — he holds back on a swear so he won’t wake Hamilton — but he gets a flame going, and he smokes until he can think clearly again.

He watches the sun begin to rise. It’s amazing, beautiful.

He looks over to Hamilton instead. Hamilton is a different kind of amazing, but just as captivating and wondrous. He’s glad he can’t be blinded if he stares at him for too long, although sometimes it feels like he’s looking directly at the sun when he looks at Hamilton…

Hamilton has moved positions since Aaron left their bed, and is taking up as much space as possible. He’s snoozing in a fresh sunbeam, his hair fanned out on a pillow, and he’s stretched out, lying on his stomach with the blanket tangled around his legs, exposing his feet. It’s odd to see Hamilton asleep — normally, back home, he rose with the sun, because he said it _wasted time to sleep the daylight away_ and he walked around in perpetual exhaustion and all but made more hours in a day so he could do all he wanted to accomplish. But…it’s different here. He allows himself to rest, he forgives himself. He isn’t afraid.

Aaron wishes he knew how to do that, forgive himself.

“Hey.”

Hamilton slips his arms around Aaron’s waist, rests his chin on his shoulder. Aaron had lost track of time — the sun is well into the sky, now — and Hamilton had came upon him and beheld him, unnoticed.

“Come back to bed.” Hamilton nuzzles his face against Aaron’s. His beard is scratchy. “Please? I’m cold.” He kisses his cheek. “And lonely.”

“It’s time to start the day.”

“Please? Rest with me, just for a little while.”

Aaron gives into Hamilton, because he always does. He lets Hamilton do stupid things like kiss his hand and lead him back to their bed and snuggle up to him and say, “This is much better,” and be infuriatingly insistent until Aaron finds some peace, mirrored in Hamilton’s soul.

Maybe it has been there all along within both of them, but they didn’t know where to find it. Clever people do tend to overlook the simplest things, sometimes.

When he had asked Hamilton why he was suddenly content with wasting his time, Hamilton looked at him like he thought he was stupid and said, “It isn’t wasting my time when I’m with you.”

Aaron has trouble valuing their time together because he can’t stop perseverating over all the time they wasted hating each other.

What if, what if, what if.

 

* * *

 

They get into the habit of dining at Bentham’s every few nights. Bentham is good company, has good wine, and it’s nice to talk to someone who knows _about_ them.

Bentham supports Aaron and Hamilton’s sexual relationship. He was overjoyed to hear that Aaron fellated Hamilton, saying, “I knew you couldn’t resist that man, I know I couldn’t,” and he had begged to hear about his thoughts of the act, but Aaron evasively changed the subject. When it becomes clear that Aaron isn’t going to speak, Bentham begins to talk about his own love for sucking cock. Aaron doesn’t like how he looks at Alexander when describing how much he enjoys men, or how Alexander blushes and replies that he could be a mouthful…

Nevertheless, Bentham is an entertaining fellow, and Aaron likes him for other reasons than his similar preferences. Not that he, or Hamilton for that matter, are the same as him. Bentham has given no indication that he has any liking for women, but he and Hamilton enjoy the fairer sex as well. Bentham insists that there is no difference, that it can’t be _rationalized,_ and if all the men who like men were forthright about their attractions, then people’s views on the matter might change.

“Men can’t be truthful about enjoying cock,” Hamilton says, “unless they want to die by hanging.”

Bentham leans back in his armchair, crosses one leg over the other — an indicator that he’s about to begin a lengthy lecture, and since dinner isn’t due for at least an hour, Aaron figures that he fill the time with talking.

It’s no wonder that Bentham and Hamilton get along so well. They’re both impossible to shut up.

“I’ve spent years thinking about these which some call _impurities_ ,” Bentham says, scowling, “and trying to find sufficient ground for treating them with the severity of punishment for those who commit them, but I cannot think of a reason why the act is immoral.”

Aaron clenches his fists in his lap. He knows something of these judgments. He remembers going to church as a young boy and learning about men who lay with men. He thought it was fascinating, until he was told it was a terrible sin. He also remembers the beating he got from his uncle when he asked in interest, like the inquisitive boy he was, _is it also a sin to kiss a boy?_

It makes him question if he has always been like this.

Hamilton puts a hand on his arm, grounding him and bringing him back to present. He must have felt him reeling.

Aaron opens his hand, turns the palm up, and Hamilton slides his hand into his, interlocks their fingers together. There’s a rush of _we shouldn’t be doing this_ — they shouldn’t be holding hands, they shouldn’t be sitting with no space between them, not with someone watching — but he _is_ doing it, he holds Hamilton’s hand and he kisses his temple and he isn’t as ashamed as he thought he would be. Or should be.

He takes his hand from Hamilton’s, squeezes his thigh where he know it pains him sometimes, and finally meets his gaze and…Hamilton is smiling at him, brilliantly, in that way that makes him euphoric.

Bentham goes on. Aaron had almost forgot he was there.

“We live quite repressed lives in England, and in your America too, as well as most of the modern world,” Bentham says. “However, this lifestyle was highly and openly practiced in Athens and Ancient Rome, and they were some of the wisest and most talented of men.”

“Their religion didn’t consider it an atrocity,” Hamilton comments.

Aaron thinks of a strike across his face that knocks him down, and being told _any unnatural interest in a man is vile._

“I believe that is one component, whereas the common religion preaches acceptance and condemnation within the same thought,” says Bentham, the known loyal atheist. “I find it strange that buggery, a private event, is listed as an offense against peace along with war or forgery, but adultery is not.” He grins, and says directly to Hamilton, “Isn’t that right, Alexander?”

Hamilton lets out an indignant _huh!_ The news of him being the most well-known adulterer in the entire United States had reached London, apparently. No wonder Bentham is bawdy with Hamilton. He’s read that _smut_ Hamilton published _._

“It is a quandary why there is this harsh prosecution for men who prefer men,” Bentham says. “But I have a few theories why this stigma against an appetite for men occurs. First, some people just enjoy to hate it. For others, there are those who fear because they fear they’ll enjoy it.”

At that, Hamilton nudges Aaron. That doesn’t apply to Aaron, he was never _afraid_ he’d enjoy it, because he _knew_ he’d enjoy it. He was more fearful of the feelings that went with it, and the feelings he feared Hamilton did not share.

“A third theory,” Bentham continues, “is that there could be the danger that other men might learn by example, and begin to engage in the same activities.”

Aaron’s throat feels tight. He never would have thought these…these irregular thoughts about Alexander if he hadn’t evoked them within him. Thoughts and desires spread through him like a wildfire, burning and quick, leaving nothing the same as it was before.

“However, I am all for encouraging other men to join the ranks.” Bentham looks delighted at the idea of a multitude of men, all for him to enjoy. “In fact, I have been the first experience for many men—”

“Jeremy, please.”

“Ah, right, sorry.” Bentham is distracted for a moment, presumably thinking of his past dalliances. Not for the first time, Aaron wonders about Bentham’s relationships with men. Were they all purely sexual, or was there romance, too? He’s said that he gets on his knees, and that he bends them over, but does he let men do that to him? Has he had many lovers at a time, or was there one so important he didn’t want to give his attention to anyone else? Has he been in love? Has a man broken his heart?

“Why does it matter if more men live in that way?” Bentham asks. “If it is their true preference, it is how they should live. Nobody is hurt if both are consenting, and in fact, it makes them happier. It would be beneficial for civilization, as a whole.”

“But what of women?” Hamilton asks.

Bentham waves his hand. “There will be men like you two, who still enjoy putting it in women. It’s not like our population would cease to exist. Sex isn’t just for breeding. Haven’t you ever had sex with a woman when there was no hope for children?”

Aaron snorts. He tries to limit releasing in whores to limit the risk of fathering bastards. He’s only had sex a handful of times with the intention of procreation.

“Ask Alexander,” Aaron says. “He’s had nine children.”

“Oh my! You _are_ committed.” Bentham puts his elbow on the armrest, rests his chin on his hand. “Do tell me, where all of those planned, or is it that your sperm is that potent?”

Hamilton blushes scarlet. Aaron does too; he doesn’t like someone talking about Hamilton’s…stuff.

“The first two were intentional,” Hamilton says. “After that, it was kind of…continually expected.”   He looks down at his lap. “My youngest is only a few months old.”

“He just doesn’t know how to pull out,” Aaron mutters. Hamilton glares at him, but it’s true — Hamilton hardly ever gives him warning before he spills in his mouth.

Bentham laughs. “It’s understandable! It’s difficult to deny oneself that pleasure,” he says. “The pleasure is our main goal — that’s why we use our mouths on each other or use our hand when we’re by ourselves. If it’s with someone we find attractive, it’s even more enjoyable. That’s why I believe it’s not damaging for women if some men choose not to lay with them. The joy it gives men outweighs any abandonment it leaves women with. And what of priests? Those poor souls who choose a life of celibacy. Are they offending women by choosing God over using their cock to fill a woman?”

“False equivalency,” says Aaron, but it goes unheard, Bentham passionately onto his train of thought.

“We should indulge in our wants. We only have one life. If we don’t act on our desires, we’d live an unhappy life,” Bentham says. “To deal with it, men might fantasize about men when they’re with women, and could even apply themselves in the, ah, wrong part in women.”

Hamilton snickers. “How do you accidentally put it _there_?”

“To maintain the delusion.” Bentham tilts his head. “You’ve never? With women?”

Hamilton says, “No!” with Aaron in unison. Why would he do that when there are so many other things to do with women? And he’s mortified of even thinking of Hamilton bending Eliza over and taking her like he would a man—

“Of course, it’s more pleasurable when it’s two men partaking in this type of intercourse,” Bentham says. “I know you two haven’t adventured down that path yet, but anal is marvelous—”

Aaron hears Hamilton take in a sharp inhale and go, “Oh,” and Aaron hardly has any time to decide what he thinks of Bentham’s statement because he’s too concerned with decoding what Hamilton’s reaction means — he sounds thrilled, interested—

“I’ve sampled both methods — the giver and the receiver — and both have their merits,” Bentham says, smiling and deepening those well set-in lines around his mouth and eyes. “It depends on the day for which I fancy, like how on some days you hunger for pork, but other days you have a craving for beef. But when it comes down to it, I’ll take either. Why shouldn’t I indulge myself fresh meat when it’s offered?”

Hamilton fidgets in his seat. Aaron ignores him and tries to take part in the conversation as if it weren’t having an effect on him.

“But isn’t one better than the other?” Aaron asks, truly curious. “Isn’t it more passive to…” He can’t finish the question.

“To be fucked? To have a man inside?” Bentham finishes for him. Hamilton lets out a noise akin to a squeak and Aaron stammers.

“It’s the misconception that it can’t be pleasurable for the one who takes the passive role, as you say,” Bentham says. “But that is false. Unless of course, your partner is unskilled and rude.”

“It’s the mindset,” Hamilton says, assured, and Aaron remembers what Hamilton had told him once when he was baiting him — _I’ve thought about you in me,_ he said, unashamed at how he wanted him, _I’d let you take me._

“Exactly!” Bentham looks too comfortably at Hamilton, leering at him like _he’d_ like to be inside Hamilton, and Aaron’s jealousy burns as hot as his simmering arousal.

“It isn’t painful at all if it’s done right, and is quite pleasurable for all participants. I wouldn’t say it’s split between passive and active roles. The one who plays the woman’s role, so to say, isn’t just an object to the pleasure of another. There’s a place inside a man that when touched it gives a pleasure you’ve never dreamed of.”

Hamilton is practically squirming in his seat. Aaron shoots him a glance but Hamilton nods his head and says, “It’s true.”

Bentham nods back at Hamilton, and Aaron hates it, he hates that they can relate on this. He hates that Hamilton has done it before — apparently — and is comfortable and likes and _wants_ it.

“It’s comparable with any other pleasure,” Bentham says. “To feel a man inside and feel his venereal tribute fill you…” His voice trails off as he closes his eyes and hums softly. “But being inside a man is just as good. I suggest switching roles.”

Hamilton is silent, and so is Aaron. He’s intrigued by Bentham’s ideas — the man certainly seems to know what he’s talking about, and he _was_ right that he’d enjoy sucking Hamilton off, but this is more…involved. It’s unfathomable to imagine it either way — Hamilton laid out under him as he pushes into him, or Hamilton going inside him…

“What is the purpose of pleasure if we don’t seek it out?” Bentham asks.

The question sounds rhetorical but Bentham must want a response because for the first time, he’s quiet. Aaron can’t say anything because Hamilton is being too damn distracting next to him and all he can think about is how much he hates the men who came before him in Hamilton’s life.

Bentham chuckles when neither responds.

“Oh, how wonderful it is that nobody has ever yet fancied it to be sinful to scratch where it itches.” Bentham stands up and stretches, putting his arms over his head. Aaron eyes his lithe, tall body and how it moves under his clothes until Bentham catches looking.

Aaron looks away, ashamed.

“I’ll check on dinner,” Bentham says. “I’ll leave the pair of you to discuss your…thoughts.”

As soon as Bentham leaves the room, Aaron turns to Hamilton.

“You can’t control yourself, can you?” he asks, scolding.

“I can’t help it.” Hamilton’s breathing is heavy, his voice dipped down into that lower register he gets when he’s turned on. “He kept going on about sex and orgasms and _venereal tribute_ and itches to be scratched and _ah_ …”

It appears that Hamilton has found his own itch. He brushes his hand over the front of his breeches and moans, which he must have been suppressing for half an hour. He’s hard, the line of his cock showing in his crisp white breeches.

Aaron can’t say much. He’s felt his own cock filling out, too.

Hamilton is grinning when Aaron looks back up to his face. Then, he begins a good rub at himself down below.

“You’re a heathen,” Aaron says.

“Probably.   Mmm…” Hamilton spreads his legs wider, runs his thumb over the head of his cock that’s trapped, tucked to the right in his breeches.

How can Hamilton be so shameless?

“He’s going to come back and see you like this.”

“So? I’m sure he would approve,” Hamilton says. He rubs himself with no urgency, enjoying it. “He said we should take pleasure whenever possible.”

“I don’t think he meant jerking off on his sofa.”

“Didn’t you fuck his housekeeper in this very room?”

“ _Alexander.”_

“Mmm, I like it when you’re angry—”

“Stop.”

Hamilton does not stop. Aaron doesn’t know why he bothered.

“You know,” Hamilton says, “if you gave me a hand, this would go quicker.”

Very true. And Hamilton looks so very good right now, legs wide and so _so_ desperate…

He kisses Hamilton so he’s quiet when he puts his hand on him. Hamilton shudders when he’s touched, sighs softly against Aaron’s mouth and says, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Aaron palms Hamilton’s hardness, grips his shaft through the material and runs his fingers up and down before going right to getting Hamilton off as quickly as possible.

Hamilton makes a noise of complaint. “Put your hand in my pants, Burr, please.”

“Hush. You’re lucky I’m doing this at all,” Aaron says, but he knows he’s lucky to be able to do this at all. He’s blessed to have Hamilton whimpering and begging for him to touch him. He’s lucky that Hamilton is alive at all…

He moves on Hamilton, pins him against the couch and kisses him, thoroughly. Tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and licks his mouth, slides his tongue inside and drinks up Hamilton’s tiny moans, all while vigorously working his hand on him. Hamilton tries to hurry it, pressing against his hand and moaning half in pleasure and half in frustration, and he opens his mouth to complain but Aaron kisses him quiet, and oh, how lovely it is to have Hamilton pliant under him and so close—

“You tempt me, boys.”

Aaron jerks away from Hamilton, startled — he leaves Hamilton searching for his mouth on his and whining when he removes his hand from him. Aaron worries for a second that they were _caught_ but it is only Bentham, standing in the doorway and looking extremely pleased.

It doesn’t make Aaron any more relieved.

“You didn’t have to stop on account of me. I was enjoying it,” Bentham says. “I can tell by the…enormity of Alexander’s display that he was having fun, too.”

Hamilton closes his legs together, blushing, as Bentham openly stares at his very apparent erection, which is only accentuated by his tight white breeches. They hide nothing.

(Aaron is particularly fond of them.)

“I’m fine,” Hamilton says, although he sounds very not fine; horny, angry, stupefied.

Aaron pretends not to notice, and looks ahead at Bentham, as if he didn’t just walk in moments before Hamilton came in his breeches.

Bentham laughs. “If you say so,” he says, and motions for them to follow. “Let us fulfill one of Alexander’s hungers.”

Thankfully, Bentham talks of something other than filth at dinner. Aaron shares in the conversation as he eats (a nice, juicy pork roast — that must’ve been Bentham’s _preference_ today), and tries to act like everything is normal. He’s humiliated at being discovered in a compromising situation, never mind the fact that Bentham has caught him with his breeches down and inside his housekeeper. But what he saw with Hamilton, it’s private, and revealing…

Currently, Hamilton is miserable, and miserable to be around. He keeps shifting in his seat and saying smartass remarks and is all-around terrible company, until Aaron finally has enough and leans in to whisper, “ _Behave.”_

“How can I when I’ve got the world’s worst case of blue balls?” Hamilton retorts, angry, like the worst possible injustice has been dealt to him.

Bentham overhears.

“If mister Burr won’t be a good friend and help you out, I’d be more than happy to resolve that for you.”

For a moment, Aaron thinks that Hamilton will take any help — be beat off right here at the dinner table! — but he shakes his head and stuffs his mouth with food instead.

He didn’t _really_ expect Hamilton to accept Bentham’s assistance but…it’s good to know.

Bentham smirks at them from across the table.

“Then I hope Alexander will be rewarded for his patience later,” Bentham says. He pours himself another serving of wine, and then fills Hamilton’s glass — winks at him, and Hamilton _winks back._ Dammit.

“Alexander has had enough,” Aaron says, “Don’t let him fool you,” and he doesn’t look at Hamilton because he doesn’t want to be fooled by him.

 

* * *

 

Bentham forces them to take his personal carriage because he’s worried they’re too drunk and too upset — each problem fed the other, they were mad at each other so they drank and the more intoxicated they became the madder they became.

Aaron supposes that they’re still angry with each other. So, it’s nothing new.

He knows Hamilton feels bad about it. It’s dark inside the coach but he knows Hamilton is looking at him. He _feels_ his piercing gaze prying into his brain, trying to get at him. Aaron ignores him, he won’t be drawn in that easily, but then Hamilton puts his hand on his knee and mumbles low, “Why does this always happen with us?”

Aaron swats his hand away, and doesn’t answer. He isn’t ready to _talk_ about it yet.

However, Hamilton is. He always wants to talk.

“Why are you mad?”

“You know why,” Aaron says.

Hamilton lets out a long-suffering sigh, and then Aaron hears clothes rustling and then feels Hamilton pressed against him.

“You can be mad at me if you want to,” Hamilton says. His breath smells of a mix of wine and whiskey. It’s a miracle he isn’t sick. “But I know you wanted it too, you wanted to put your hands on me—”

“Shut up,” Aaron snaps. “The driver will hear.”

“I’m _whispering,”_ Hamilton says, not whispering at all, and giggles into Aaron’s neck. He gets quite insufferable when he’s wasted.

“You don’t like me,” Hamilton whines, and Aaron swears he feels Hamilton’s pouty lips on his ear as he talks. “You don’t like me and you wouldn’t let me get off because you t-think I’m...I’m revolting even though you lie and say I’m handsome, you think I’m ugly—”

“Be quiet.” Let him suffer. Aaron doesn’t feel bad at all — it’s Hamilton’s fault he was denied. He wasn’t going to jerk him off in front of company, no matter how much of a debaucher the company is. Hamilton is the one who couldn’t handle it, Aaron could control his erection, but Hamilton is the one who got excited and had to touch himself when Bentham talked about certain activities…

“You still think it’s disgusting to be with a man,” Hamilton says. “Don’t you?”

Aaron can’t honestly answer. He likes being with Hamilton, but—

“We aren’t going to talk about it,” he says.

“Does that mean _here_ , or _never_?”

Aaron is quiet for a moment, thinking if he ignores it long enough he won’t have to answer, but he knows Hamilton never gives up so he responds, “We can when we’re alone.”

Hamilton exhales, blows his stinking alcohol breath in his face.

“Alright,” Hamilton says, and he returns to his side of the seat, postponing their conversation until later.

They don’t talk for the rest of the journey, except for when Aaron has to help Hamilton step down from the carriage — _be careful, Alex_ — and when he helps Hamilton upstairs because Hamilton is dizzy — Hamilton insists he’s fine but he stumbles over his cane and Aaron grabs his arm to keep him from falling and he says, _thank you, wow, you’re so strong._

It’s until they’re away from everyone and locked in their home away from home before they attend to each other. Aaron’s heart speeds in his chest — he’s nervous like a boy with his first girl. He feels so dumb. Hamilton makes him dumb. He always has.

“I do like you,” Aaron says. He feels like he needs to clarify.

“I’m sorry for that.” Hamilton sounds like he’s sobered up some. “I’m sorry that I — that I tempt you into this wickedness.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” Aaron says. “You know that I care for you and that I am…” He swallows. “That I’m attracted to you. It’s just that I’m not used to this yet.”

Hamilton laughs. “You’re fifty years old.”

“I haven’t had my entire adult life to figure this out like you have,” Aaron says. “I haven’t been with other men, I haven’t done — or even thought about the things Bentham spoke of—”

“Are you interested in that?” Hamilton asks. He steps closer to him. “Being that way, with a man?”

Again, Aaron feels like a young fool. He likes being intimate with Hamilton, and he thinks Hamilton is handsome and pretty and he likes making him feel good — he likes the sound Hamilton makes when he’s got his cock in his mouth and he likes it when Hamilton walks around their room naked. But the thought of Hamilton bent over for him, them together in the most carnal way—

—it makes his face burn hotter, like he’s been hit.

“Bentham made it sound…” Aaron searches for the words. Painful? Icky? “Brutish.”

Hamilton runs a hand through his hair. An anxious tic of his.

“He was being overly crass, like always,” Hamilton says. “It’s not that way if you…” He looks at Aaron, so honestly. “It’s not like that if you like the person you’re with.”

That’s right. He should know. He really liked that John Laurens. Aaron didn’t know he could be jealous of a dead man.

“I didn’t know you were this distressed over it,” Hamilton goes on, always talking. “I thought you wanted it. You were worked up when you were touching me.”

“You’re a bad influence,” Aaron says.

“Then could I influence you to put your dick in my ass?”

“Alexander.”

“I’m kidding. Don’t look at me like that.” Hamilton smiles — his eyes glassy and red from drink and emotions — and takes Aaron’s hand in his and kisses it.

“I’m satisfied with us already,” Hamilton says. “I don’t need… I like you and I like my body when it is with your body, I like this new thing and—”

Aaron kisses him. Kisses him until he can’t breathe and there’s only him. Aaron takes him by the shoulders and walks him back and lays him down on the bed, crawls on top of him and kisses him some more. Hamilton keeps talking, or tries to between Aaron’s mouth on his, saying, “I like kissing you, I like it when you kiss me, oh, I like you so much—”

“I like you, Alexander Hamilton,” Aaron says, and that is one thing he is certain of.

 

* * *

 

The days they get word from home are always emotional. Aaron is never happier than when he reads what Theo carefully writes him, but it reminds him that he’s far, far away from her and misses her dearly. Hamilton, however, always feels an excess of emotions, good and bad. One moment he’s brimming with joy, the next he crashes into a depressive slump that lingers for days. One mention of his family and he crumbles.

Aaron knows it must be painful for him. He imagines it feels like the pain of missing Theo, multiplied for each child he has.

Hamilton sits on their small bed with letters strewn around him. He’s crying — Aaron pretended not to notice but he’s gone from quiet tears to shoulder-shaking sobs and he looks so alone and so sad that Aaron can’t neglect him. He wants to comfort him, as a lover would.

He’s careful not to sit on any of Alexander’s precious letters as he gets in bed next to him. Alexander looks at him when he notices he’s there, and then wipes his face even though his eyes are still wet. Aaron tucks Alexander’s messy hair behind his ear, kisses the corner of his frown.

“Is there anything wrong, or is this normal sad?” Aaron asks.

Hamilton sniffles. “It’s Phil.”

“Is he sick?” God, he hopes not. The boy is good, one of Aaron’s favorites, and the Hamiltons can’t loose a second Philip.

Hamilton shakes his head. “No. He…he wrote me a letter.” He looks down at the paper in his hand and smiles. “The first thing he’s ever written me.”

He shows it to Aaron. In big, misshapen letters is a child’s proud handwriting—

_Hello Father. This is Phil. Al is Good brother and helping me write you. I missing you lots and will be happy to see you when you come home._

“His grammar isn’t top-notch,” Aaron says.

Hamilton laughs, and then dissolves into tears again.

“Oh, my Alex,” and Aaron is there when Hamilton goes to him, clings to him like he’s his lifeline.

 

* * *

 

“Have you ever thought about there’s a point where you put your kid down and don’t pick them up again?”

“That’s depressing,” Aaron says.

Hamilton has calmed, and they’ve put all the letters away. They sit on the bed, Aaron upright against the headboard with Hamilton resting his head in his lap. It’s a good moment.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says, and he sounds genuine. “I’m sorry I get so overemotionally sentimental, but I miss them so much.”

“Shh.” Aaron runs his hand over Hamilton’s forehead, smoothing out the contemplative wrinkles there. “It’s okay. It’s good that you love your family so much. I like that about you.”

Hamilton smiles. He must like hearing that reaffirmation, too, that he _likes_ him.

“Don’t you miss Theo?” Hamilton asks.

“Terribly,” Aaron says, and he has that terrible pang in his chest again. “All the time.” He pauses. “And I miss my cat.”

“I miss her too,” Hamilton says. When Aaron raises his brow, he adds, “Seriously! We bonded when you were gone.”

“Only because you bribed her with food.”

“She came to me looking for cuddles,” Hamilton says. “She listened while I vocalized how you deserted us.”

Aaron doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say about that. He’s ran out of things to say. He knows it was a mistake. But Hamilton doesn’t seem to be angry about it, he’s just…talking about it. Matter of fact. Another thing in their past that they have to accept.

Aaron caresses Hamilton’s face, that lovely face he’s grown to adore so much. Runs his thumb over his lip, scratches at his beard.

Hamilton kisses his thumb.

“We won’t be without them for much longer,” Hamilton says. “We’ll be going home soon.”

Yes. It’s never been a question of _if,_ but _when._ _Soon_ is the more complex question. Hamilton has been saying _we’ll go home soon_ since he arrived in London. He said _soon_ a month ago, a week ago, a few days ago, but he’s had no initiative to actually carry it through. It leaves Aaron on edge, always wondering when it’ll be over.

“Burr? Are you okay?”

Hamilton looks up at him, concerned. He actually stopped talking long enough to notice Aaron’s thoughts were somewhere else.

Aaron runs his hand through Hamilton’s hair until he stops looking so worried. Aaron’s fear of losing him is nothing for him to know about.

“I’m fine,” Aaron says. “I was just thinking what it will be like when we go home.”

“It’ll be different,” Hamilton replies, quick.

And that’s what Aaron is afraid of. _Different._ He wouldn’t trade what they have now — all the bickering and shouting along with the more tender moments — for anything. He’s afraid that once he isn’t Hamilton’s only option, that he’ll be less important to him. How could he compete with the attention of his small army of children, or with the affection of his wife? He knows Alexander likes her better. He _loves_ her. Does he like him enough to continue? Aaron accepts that he won’t be first choice, but will he be a choice at all? Now that Hamilton has had him, maybe the thought of him won’t be as exciting anymore — or maybe he’ll find another man he likes more. All of these things have paralyzed Aaron at the thought of going home, and he has begun to dread the thought of it every time it’s mentioned. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Hamilton cuts off their relationship. He tried to distance himself from him but that didn’t work, Hamilton kept chasing him, and he finally won him over and convinced him to _stay_ — and now he’ll stay as Hamilton moves on without him, as he’s done, always.

“I hope it won’t change too much,” Aaron says, and he’s feeling rather brave so he adds, “I like what we have here.”

“It can’t go on like this forever,” Hamilton says, waving his hand between them, as if to indicate _me and you_. “It’s fun to get away and do nothing, but it’s wearing at me — I don’t mean that as an insult, relax. We have to get back to work and we need to _do_ things. Remember you promised that you’d help me become President?”

“I thought you forgot.” Aaron hasn’t forgotten — a plea made at Hamilton’s near-deathbed. A promise that they could do better.

That they could be better.

“I thought that was part of your plan to seduce me,” Hamilton says, grinning. He turns his head so his face is pressed against Aaron’s crotch, and then looks back to Aaron. “I thought you flattered me so you could get into my breeches — hey!”

Aaron shoves Hamilton off his lap despite his squawking, gets out of bed, steps into his shoes, looks for his coat — he took it off earlier when they came back up after breakfast and he laid it somewhere but he can’t remember where. It’s hard to think of anything at the moment other than he has to get away, he can’t be here when Hamilton obviously doesn’t feel the same about him. Hamilton has nothing to lose in this scenario—

“What’s wrong?” Hamilton sits up, looking at Aaron like he’s crazy. “What’s the matter?”

He finds his coat under Hamilton’s. He shakes out the wrinkles and talks to Hamilton as he puts it on.

“The problem is that you don’t know what’s wrong.” He does the buttons, checks himself in the mirror to fix his shirt ruffles. “You’re rather ignorant for how brilliant you’re supposed to be.”

Hamilton sputters, scoffs like he’s been horribly offended. Aaron crosses his arms, waiting as Hamilton tries to string together a coherent sentence from that wicked clever mouth of his.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me this time?” Hamilton asks.

Aaron laughs. _This time._

“Nope.”

Hamilton slams his fist on the bed. “That’s typical of you,” he says. “You never discuss your issues, you’d rather escape them. You decided it was better to shoot at each other than talk things through, and that’s why you do all those risky behaviors, fucking all your money away and the opium—”

“Fuck off!”

“—and who runs off to another goddamn country in the middle of the night and only leaves a note?”

“I’ll be back later.” His tone harsh, bitter — enough to make Hamilton fall silent — and he asks, “Is that enough of a notification for you?” and he slams the door behind him.

Hamilton shouts for him, a loud, “Burr!” Aaron waits on the other side of the door for a moment, listening. He expects Hamilton to open the door and finish the argument, but he doesn’t.

That tells Aaron everything.

 

* * *

 

Aaron blows off some steam. He visits his most frequented whorehouse and pays the first whore he sees unoccupied, lets her take him to an empty room and he undoes his pants and she gets down on her knees with without talking. It’s quick and efficient and when he’s done she spits on the floor and takes his money.

It’s exactly what he needed, but he doesn’t feel much better afterward because he keeps thinking about Alexander and how angry he makes him and how he would have rather got off with him, and his afternoon romp is ruined.

He walks back to the inn, taking in the sights and smoking. He’s not in any hurry to get back and start the inevitable row that he and Hamilton are going to have. He imagines how it will go — first Hamilton will guilt him into leaving him all alone and put on an act that he’s upset, then Aaron will say something mean and Hamilton will actually be upset, then Aaron will deflect and try to blame it on Hamilton, and then Hamilton will almost cry, maybe with a lip wobble, but he he’ll say something to keep from crying that he’ll regret later, and then Aaron will throw something and Hamilton will bring up their past, and by then they will have forgotten what they were originally fighting about but Aaron will carry it on to outlast his refractory period so he can push Hamilton down on the mattress and get on top of him, and they’ll finally forgive each other and say they didn’t mean any of it, anyway.

He sighs when he reaches their room, preparing for what’s to come. The door is unlocked, so, he turns the knob and pushes open the door, and is ready to exchange blows but…

…Hamilton is stretched out on top of the blankets, wearing only his shirt.

Hamilton notices Aaron is there and he struggles to sit up, fails, flopping on his back with an _oof,_ but then tries again, using his elbow to rise. He doesn’t seem angry, however — he ecstatically grins, almost deranged.

“Aaron Burr, sir!” Hamilton blows at the hair that’s fallen in his face, but he gets some in his mouth. He sticks out his tongue and removes the hair but then appears to be surprised that the hair is still attached to his head. It’s bizarre behavior, even for Hamilton. If Aaron didn’t know better, he’s say Hamilton was…

“What the hell did you do?” Aaron asks, but then he spies the familiar bottle on the nightstand, and yes, it all makes sense.

“I wanted to see why you liked laudanum so much,” Hamilton says. “You said it was no big deal—”

Aaron takes Hamilton’s face in his hands to get a good observation of him. He’s a complete mess and looks a bit wild — he’s got an dazed grin, his hair is tangled, his pupils are blown wide like large ink blots, and he won’t stop _giggling._

Hamilton is definitely high.

“How much did you take?” Laudanum is a sleep aid. It isn’t meant to be used for recreation. Aaron only takes enough to relax him to a state of mind so he can rest.

Hamilton shrugs. “I dunno. However much you take.”

Aaron sighs. “That’s a lot, Hamilton. I’ve built a resistance to the drug. The same amount would affect you differently.”

“Clearly,” Hamilton says. He blinks. “You should have _told_ me. You’re terribly mean. I’m… Hmm. The room is fuzzy. That’s quite odd. Um.”

He lies down and looks so very serious that Aaron can’t help but laugh. He covers his mouth so Hamilton won’t see him laughing at him. Hamilton is so damn interesting — even if frustrating — and if there’s one thing that he’s certain of, it’s that he’ll never be bored when Hamilton is around.

Then, he realizes that he isn’t angry with Alexander for…whatever it was he angry about. His poor, stupid, precious Alex. Ridiculous Alex who is too smart for his own good. Silly Alex who has a big heart and the best of intentions. His Alex, and when Aaron isn’t mad at him he’s mad _for_ him, and sometimes they’re one in the same.

Misery loves company, so he decides to join Hamilton. He takes an extra large dose of laudanum and he feels it start to take effect seconds later, warm serenity chasing away his anxieties. He likes opium, wonderful magical poppies, it makes him feel better—

Hamilton stares at him with his mouth agape. Aaron leans down and kisses that mouth and it’s warm and broad, tasting like buttercream frosting and salted honey and other wonderful things that doesn’t have an earthly name. Hamilton gasps and changes the innocent kiss into something deeper, discovering physical contact feels incredible, like this.

Hamilton whines when Aaron pulls himself away, but he tells Hamilton to _wait,_ and Hamilton is surprisingly compliant under the influence. Hamilton watches as Aaron lights two candles and draws the curtains shut, leaving them bathed in a warm orange glow. It feels rather romantic, more so when Aaron saunters over to him and starts to take off his clothes that have whorehouse-smell sticking to them. Hamilton doesn’t notice the smell, or maybe he doesn’t care. He whistles when Aaron is nude, cat-calling like he would for a pretty woman on the street. Aaron would’ve been embarrassed any other time, but he shakes his hips. It makes Hamilton laugh, which is another wonderful thing.

He puts on his nightshirt and gets into bed with him, body against body.

“Scoot,” Aaron says, pushing at Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton moves slow and complains that he was already comfortable, but he makes space for Aaron to lie beside him. It takes a few moments for them to get situated; Hamilton wiggles to get closer to Aaron and Aaron arranges them so his arm won’t go numb, Hamilton puts his cold feet on his and Aaron swears at him but Hamilton just laughs and kisses his chin.

“There,” Hamilton says. “Perfect.”

Aaron agrees.

“You feel okay?” he asks.

Hamilton hums. “I’m hungry.”

“That’s the opium.”

“Oh.” Hamilton is quiet for a moment. “I don’t think I like this. It’s too difficult to think.”

“That’s the point,” Aaron says. “It’s to clear your mind. Unwind.”

“I don’t _like_ to unwind.”

It’s like dealing with a petulant child.

“I know.” Aaron kisses Hamilton’s temple, where his hair is gray. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Hamilton frowns. “I don’t like it when you go away.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because…” Aaron doesn’t have a good answer for that. Not one that Hamilton would like, anyway. And Aaron can’t say, _I leave so you won’t be the one leaving me._

“Do you want to know the worst part of this?” Hamilton asks.

“What’s that?”

“I want to go down on you, but I don’t think I can move,” Hamilton says. “And it seems that I’m having issues…um. Getting it up.”

“That’s fine.”

“But how can we forgive each other if we don’t—”

Aaron kisses Hamilton’s pouty lips.

“We can talk.”

 

* * *

 

They talk, exchanging stories, wrapped up with each other. They take another small dose to carry the feeling through the evening because it’s so nice neither wants to stop. Hamilton is a bit slappy and sloppy but Aaron is mellow and finds it endearing. Hamilton gives him kisses that miss Aaron’s mouth and hit his ear, and when Aaron complains, Hamilton pushes at him and tells him to _stop moving_ even though he’s the one moving, and Aaron has to hold onto him so Hamilton won’t fall off the bed.

Hamilton concedes, and slumps against Aaron.

Aaron thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then Hamilton breathes in, sighing happily. It takes a moment to realize that Hamilton is _smelling_ him — pressing his nose against him and sniffing, inhaling his scent.

“What are you doing?”

Alex moves his head to find a new patch of skin, and sniffs again. “You smell good.”

Aaron laughs. “I’ve been laying in bed with you all day.”

“You always smell good,” Hamilton says. He rubs his face into Aaron’s shoulder, sniffs deep. “You smell…warm. Like a candle with wax collected in a plate. Fresh pine. Savory. Tobacco.” He wrinkles his nose at that, but smells him again, anyway. “Sweat.” He smiles against his skin. “And you smell like me.”

Aaron turns over to face Alexander, wraps his arms around him. He presses his face to Alexander’s shoulder, sniffs and — he smells pleasant, too. He smells like a man, sweaty and spicy but also _good_. Woodsy and a hint of sweetness. Like new ink. Petrichor.

He lets himself drown in it.

Hamilton lifts his neck so Aaron can smell him there. He smells _delicious._ Aaron licks him, to see if he tastes as good as he smells — he swears he can feel his pulse on his tongue and he feels the scrape of day-old stubble — and he does taste as good, or perhaps, even better.

“Men are lovely, aren’t they?” Hamilton asks.

Aaron isn’t entirely sure about that. He guesses that they can be nice-looking, but he wouldn’t go as far to say _lovely_ — except for Alexander, of course. He associates men with sweat and rough hands and hard lines and beard burn along with kisses, but he’s began to find those things attractive…

“I’ve always liked guys,” Hamilton says, musing. “I was young when I knew I liked them the same as girls. Even back home,” he says, and it takes Aaron a moment to realize he means his Caribbean home, his first home.

“We would be by the water,” Hamilton continues, “and the other boys would take off their shirts and I would look, and when we were teenagers I would look when we would go swimming and they took off their trousers.”

Aaron wonders if there were any young boys who looked at Alexander. He was so handsome when he was young — Aaron understands now why he was so enchanted by him when they first met.

“And then what happened?”

“Oh, not much,” Hamilton says. “There were a few innocent things when I was young, but nothing serious. When I came to America, I didn’t pursue anything with men because it was…different there.” A pause. “There was only John.”

An angry, savage monster flexes in Aaron’s chest every time John Laurens is mentioned. He’s mature enough to know it’s envy that he feels. It’s illogical to be envious of him. Aaron wasn’t interested in Hamilton like _that_ back then, and Laurens has been dead for almost three decades.

…but he met Hamilton _first_ , Hamilton looked for _him_ and he brought him a drink because they had a connection, and there is _nothing_ logical about Hamilton.

“You two were close?” Aaron asks, although he knows the answer.

“Yes.” Hamilton runs his hand down Aaron’s side, down to his thigh.   “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Aaron says, too quickly. “I know you loved him.”

“Did I?”

“You did, and you still do. You loved him because he was what you needed and you were the same.”

Hamilton smirks at him. “How so?” The candlelight makes him appear mischievous, his dark eyes flickering.

“Egomaniacal,” Aaron says. “Self-destructive. Reckless.”

“Those last two are synonyms.”

“ _Rude._ ”

Hamilton mumbles an agreement.

Aaron isn’t thinking clearly, and not just from the opium. He’s over-talking, which is dangerous, but he’s too damn forlorn that Hamilton had had a more profound relationship with someone else and he’ll never have that with him.

“You fucked,” he says, and he was right, it is dangerous to talk more. “I don’t know if you fucked him in the ass or he went inside you, but I know you want that and…”

He closes his eyes and imagines them — Alexander and that _man_ moving on top of each other, thrusting and moaning, cocks sliding in—

“We didn’t do that.”

Aaron looks to Hamilton, and there’s a grim quietness there upon his face and oh no, Aaron is the one who put it there, reminding him of his loss.

“I’m sorry—,” Aaron begins but Alexander puts a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“It’s fine.” Alexander kisses his forehead. “We…we didn’t go inside each other,” he explains. “We were going to, when we had an abundance of time and the war was over, but… He died.”

“Alex.”

“It wasn’t easy to hide our relationship from everyone else. I think Lafayette knew. Bless him. But Laurens and I were so young and eager that anything felt good.”

“If you haven’t…” Aaron skips the details. “…then how do you it feels good with a man? When Bentham was talking about it, you said it did. Feel good.”

“I figured if a few fingers in me feels marvelous, a cock must feel extraordinary.”

Aaron is glad for the dim lighting because he’s sure his embarrassment shows. He remembers, with clarity, what Hamilton had said about putting his fingers inside himself while he masturbated. _I’m sure you’re much better than my fingers,_ he said.

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” Hamilton trails his hand up Aaron’s thigh, going under the hem of his shirt. “I used these fingers, these very same ones I’m touching you with right now, they were in my—”

“Alex.” Hamilton is teasing him, trying to goad him into…he doesn’t know. But he realizes he isn’t as disturbed as he had thought he’d be. He is, somewhat — he’s had those fingers in his mouth, for fucks sake — but he reckons it doesn’t matter much once he’s sucked on his penis.

“No,” Aaron says. “I just don’t know what you expect from me.”

Aaron wishes the wick of the candles have burnt out so he wouldn’t have to see how Hamilton is looking at him now.

“You know I don’t expect _that_ from you,” Hamilton says. “It’s not just about getting off with you.” He brings his hand up to cradle Aaron’s face, holds it there as he kisses him, intently. “I like you for more than your cock, Aaron Burr.”

He starts nibbling at his neck, soft wet bites with his teeth that make Aaron breathless.

“Alex, stop,” he says, but he hopes _please don’t stop._

“Tell me.” Hamilton plants more of those annoying, wonderful kisses on his neck. “Has there ever been a man — other than me, of course,” he says, grinning, “who got your attention.”

“Just you,” Aaron says, but then a memory overcomes him and then, “and Jonathan, I guess.”

His almost, only—

Hamilton hadn’t been expecting that. He jolts from sleepy satisfaction, and demands, “Who?”

“Bellamy,” Aaron says, like Hamilton should know him. He _should,_ but their paths never crossed and Bellamy was gone before Aaron met Hamilton. One traded for the other.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Aaron says. “We were just friends. We went to college together, both seminary students. He was a few years older than me. I was drawn to him. He was kind and warm and beautifully poetic. I don’t think I would have survived those years if he wasn’t there. He was pure. Pretty on the inside and out… I’m sure he was attractive, but it’s been so long that I can’t remember what he looks like and I don’t have a portrait of him, I don’t even know if one exists…”

He wishes Hamilton would say something, anything, but he’s listening to him, like what he’s saying matters to him. When Aaron loses himself, Hamilton brings him back — putting his arm around Aaron and pulling him close so Aaron rests on his chest.

“He wrote me letters,” Aaron says. “He called me _my dearest soldier_ and he said things like _I impart to you every emotion of my heart._ ”

“You have them memorized?”

“They made me feel…” Aaron has thought about Bellamy and his letters a lot, recently. Since this new thing has emerged within him. He thinks about what he would do if Bellamy were alive and he received them now. If he had known then…

“I didn’t understand and I didn’t realize then, but I think he was trying to tell me that he…he… I think he wanted me but he couldn’t tell me. I understand him so well now, my dear friend—”

Hamilton puts a steady hand on his back. He was spiraling. He takes a shaky breath, and then another, until it doesn’t hurt.

“What happened to him?” Hamilton asks. Aaron hears the vibration of it in Hamilton’s chest; it sounds harsh and ugly.

_It rains, my boy, excessively. Does it drop through your tent?_

“He died,” Aaron says. “He died without knowing…”

_That I cared for him._

Hamilton is quiet again. His unusual pensiveness is calming to Aaron, and soon he finds himself growing drowsy and heavy-limbed.

“Thank you,” Aaron mumbles, but Hamilton doesn’t respond. He moves his head to look and…Hamilton is asleep.

The laudanum has all but worn off for Aaron, but it’s powerful for Hamilton and his first time, giving him a nice, easy rest.

He deserves it.

Aaron smiles and kisses Hamilton softly, and then lies his head back on his chest. He tucks the blanket around them so Hamilton won’t wake up cold, and tries to match his breathing with Hamilton’s.

Aaron doesn’t sleep until long after the candles have burnt out.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton oversleeps in the morning, and Aaron wakes him because he knows he’ll be grumpy all day if he misses breakfast. He crawls into bed and kisses Hamilton awake, slow and steady, until Hamilton grumbles and opens his eyes that are crusty in the corners. Hamilton blinks, as though he’s trying to process Aaron next to him, and Aaron worries, worries that the previous night has harmed them irreparably.

“I have to pee,” Hamilton says, and swings his legs over the bed, grabs his cane and limps barefoot.

“Good morning to you, too,” Aaron says, but he’s patient while Hamilton goes to relieve himself, and then comes back and starts fussing in the mirror at his hair.

His silence frightens Aaron.

“What do you remember from last night?” Aaron believes directness will be the best course. Pretend like nothing’s wrong, like he isn’t choking on his heart in his throat. Some things are better left in the past, but he trusts Hamilton, and he wanted so badly to share this—this grief with him.

“I remember that we got fucked up,” Hamilton says. He puts his hair to one side and brushes it. “Your stupid _sleeping aid_ made me feel weird as hell.”

Hamilton forces through a tangle, wincing.

“Is that all?” Aaron remembers it all, he couldn’t forget it if he tried — confessions and past loves and what-could-have-beens and how dearly Alexander held him as he tore down the walls of his past.

Hamilton meets Aaron’s gaze in the mirror, then looks over this shoulder to look at him properly. He begins to speak, just a fraction of a word, but then he bites his lip and shakes his head. It’s unbearable for him when Hamilton is quiet because Aaron doesn’t know what he’s thinking in that clever mind of his, but then Hamilton flashes his crooked smile.

“I actually don’t remember anything else,” Hamilton says. “It’s kind of humiliating, really. I guess I am getting old.” He tilts his head. “Is there something I should remember?”

Aaron sighs.

“No,” he says. It isn’t the time to bring up those memories again — for either of them.

 

* * *

 

Michelle corners Aaron a couple evenings later in the main room.

“You haven’t needed me in a while,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

Aaron looks across the room, where Hamilton is playing chess with Robert. Hamilton is losing. He isn’t very good at the game. He doesn’t have enough patience.

“I’ve been busy,” he says.

Her eyes flit between him and Hamilton, and back again, a knowing smile forming on her face.

She kisses him on the cheek, freely given without trying to barter for cash. “You’re happier,” she says, and she leaves while he’s still realizing that he doesn’t feel as miserable, and why that is.

 

* * *

 

Aaron would rather stay inside (shut away, in bed) but Hamilton is restless and wants to go out. Aaron puts his hands on Hamilton’s hips and kisses him and tells him, “I thought you came here to be with me,” but Hamilton flushes pretty and says, “Yes, however—”

In the end, they reach a compromise: spend an hour in bed kissing and going down on each other, then they go out.

Hamilton is very convincing.

They go see a play because Hamilton insists that they try and experience some _culture_ while they’re in a different country. They pick a play with bad reviews because even those need an audience and papers aren’t always right, anyway.

Their seats are in the balcony — high enough so the actors won’t be able to see them — and they climb the stairs, and there are so many stairs that Hamilton has to stop and rest halfway. Aaron finds the peeling wallpaper interesting while Hamilton leans on the railing and catches his breath and rubs at his leg.

When they take their seats, it seems as they’re the only people who wanted to take the chance on the performance. They’re the only ones in the balcony, and there are only a few people sitting in the orchestra section. Aaron tugs on Hamilton’s coat to keep him from leaning over the edge like a curious child. Hamilton calls him a _spoilsport_ , but he listens, flopping down in the seat and crossing his arms.

Aaron pats his knee and says, “Thank you, my plonk,” and Hamilton grouses but puts his hand over his and that is quite nice…

This is why they wanted to see a matinee performance of a subpar play, so it wouldn’t be busy and they could be _alone._ Up in the box and in the dark. Nobody to see them together and think they’re more than just two friends.

The lights dim, and the play is truly awful. Aaron is bored quickly, and so is Hamilton…

Twenty minutes into the first act, Alexander brushes his lips against Aaron’s ear, whispers that he wants him. Aaron wants him too, he wants him here and in their rented room and he wants him at home, whenever they go back. But it feels filthy here, in public, although they’re secluded and in the dark. It makes him feel filthy and it makes it feel like Alexander is filthy even though he isn’t. He doesn’t need to see Alexander to know he’s gorgeous, and he wishes he could see him now but he can’t—

He thinks of when he courted Theodosia; boldly, and while her husband still lived. He shouldn’t have, but he did. He held her hand and visited her home, fucked her in the bed she shared with her husband. He didn’t try to hide that a relationship was brewing. Nothing was thought badly of him. Hamilton is married, too — he does have a type when it comes to partners, it seems — but it’s not as deceitful as it was with Theodosia, but yet it’s worse. _This,_ with Hamilton, it sickens him that it’s seen as vile and immoral. He’s sure that if everyone knew how cute Alexander looks when he sleeps or how thoughtful he could be when he actually _cares_ or that he has a birthmark the shape of a star on his knee or how nice he kisses, then maybe, it would be different.

He lets Hamilton kiss him. He wants to. He wants to rebel — he’s tired of waiting. He wants Hamilton.

Hamilton gasps when Aaron kisses him back — he hadn’t been expecting that — and Aaron wants more more more, slides his tongue against his and deepens it. He lays his hand on Hamilton’s chest to steady himself and he thinks he feels Hamilton’s heart beating, going _thud thud thud_ and matching his own rhythm and Aaron shuts his eyes and prays that nobody else can hear because stolen kisses in the dark are all they have.

Two days ago Hamilton accidentally brushed his hand against his at a café, and without thinking Aaron turned his palm up to hold Hamilton’s hand — it had seemed like the right thing to do — but then they looked at each other for a moment before tearing themselves apart, hoping nobody saw.

Nobody had. They were safe.

It’s easy to be dragged into oblivion by Hamilton. As easy as drowning. Hamilton kisses him wet and sloppy and noisily, greedy for what he wants, and Aaron plans to let him. But then Hamilton goes to unbutton his breeches and Aaron stops him and shakes his head, but then realizes he can’t see him in the dark so he whispers, “Not here, I can’t…”

He won’t. He wishes he were brave but he isn’t. Not when it risks too much, when he’s afraid of wanting to be openly affectionate but the reality is that it’ll never be and he has to hide it away like some horrible thing, so he’d rather not have it at all.

“Please, don’t,” he says. He almost says _I’m sorry_ but he has nothing to be sorry for except that he’s just _sorry_ in general. Sorry life is so terrible.

Hamilton sighs, loud in his ear, but pulls his hands away.

Aaron focuses on the play. He’s lost the plot.

A few minutes later, Alexander leans his head on Aaron’s shoulder. Sneakily grabs Aaron’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, one by one.

“Alex,” he whispers, and Hamilton kisses him on his mouth, shushes him.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they’re back to their humble lodgings and their specific needs have been met, and are laying unclothes in bed, Aaron dares to bring it up: “How could you be so stupid to try?”

He doesn’t have to explain what he means.

And Hamilton looks so sad.

“But we have to belong somewhere,” he says.

That is what Aaron fears — that this is the only place they can be. Far away, shacked up in a den of iniquity, disguised under false names, something that will disappear when the smoke lifts. If they cannot be together honestly, how could they be honest together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!
> 
> \- Hamilton outlined an extensive schedule for Philip. Like, how did he have time to duel when he was kept so busy? ([Here is a post](https://itshamiltime.com/category/philip-hamilton/) about it.  
> \- I took most of Bentham's dialogue from his [Offenses Against Oneself essay.](http://www.columbia.edu/cu/lweb/eresources/exhibitions/sw25/bentham/index.html) It's pretty wild and interesting, I suggest giving it a read. He wrote it back in the early 1800's, but it wasn't published until many years after his death because he was too worried to publish it when he lived.  
> \- But I took that and ran with it, and made Bentham extra....extra.  
> \- ["I like my body when it is with your body"](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1590/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/) \- ee cummings  
> \- I love Bellamy's letters to Burr. They are lovely. [Here is one.](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/166867522887/to-a-burr-from-j-bellamy-litchfield-august)
> 
> \- the part where Burr gives Alex a massage rub down was written back on February 5, 2017, and the end with them at the theatre was written on March 12, 2017. I've been thinking of this section for that long.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for continuing to read this ongoing thing, even though updates are not regular and it's been going on for a year and half now. You all are great. You can always talk to me @acanofpeaches on tumblr :)


	21. Alexander X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been over a month and Alexander cannot deprive himself of another tomorrow.
> 
> London, part four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than a month between an update! A miracle!

Alexander misses his home. He misses everything about it and sometimes he is consumed with so much malaise that he can hardly stand it. Homesickness. He’s well acquainted with the illness, more debilitating than any infection or disease. At least three times a day, he almost tells Burr that he wants to go home, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because Burr looks so damn panicked every time he mentions going home. Burr thinks he does a good job concealing it, but he doesn’t — and that makes Alex frightened, too. For them.

So, he tells himself: _tomorrow._ _Tomorrow I will say that I want to go home._

But it has been over a month, and Alexander cannot deprive himself of another tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Each day is better than the one before it. They still fight — what would they be without their little disagreements? They rise to meet each other’s problems, but it’s more like playful bickering that leads to sucking each other off. Burr has a nice body and gorgeous skin that he wants to glide across. He wants to rub and come hard again and again until their bodies can’t keep up with their lust and they lie together, talking about everything and nothing.

Burr makes him feel young again. He makes him feel…good. Marvelous. He likes waking up next to Burr and he likes how Burr grumbles when he kisses him awake, he likes how Burr kisses him and calls him _wickedly convincing,_ he likes it when Burr reads to him as he runs his fingers through his hair, he likes it when Burr calls him _my Alex,_ he likes how he feels when Burr calls him that, and he likes it how it doesn’t feel like Burr is lying when he says, _I like you._

And Burr isn’t afraid to show that he does.

One evening there’s a celebration downstairs for someone’s birthday, or maybe the party is just for the hell of it. Michelle drags them from their room where they were comfortably reading and having tea, saying the atmosphere is dull without them (Alexander knows he’s the _real_ life of the party, but Michelle has to be nice to one of her most frequent customers).

Burr gripes about missing his quiet time, but he ends up enjoying himself. They both get thoroughly drunk, enough that Burr gets _comfortable_ — he hangs on Alexander’s shoulder, laughing at a joke that wasn’t even that funny, and for a moment Alexander thinks that Burr is going to kiss him, here in front of everyone. His mouth is wet and broad and has no inhibitions, and if Alexander didn’t have anything to lose he’d let him kiss him, but he has so _so_ much to lose and he thinks that Burr would hate him later if he didn’t stop him.

So, he stops him. He smiles and pats Burr’s face, leans in and whispers, “later,” and goes over to the piano.

If anyone noticed anything between them, they don’t think much of it for long because Alexander plays an old American war song and everyone boos him and calls him a _bloody Yankee._ It’s all good fun, but he switches to a suggestive tune about being more familiar with your lover’s backside than their face.

Many song requests later, Alexander begs off for a break. He has tired hands and nobody was really listening to him anyway, plus he misses his lover…his face…and his backside, too.

Burr is at the bar where he left him, smoking and drinking. Alexander _knows_ Burr knows he’s there, but he doesn’t say anything, and keeps sipping his bourbon and looking out the window.

Alexander puts his elbow on the bar, rests his chin on his hand. “Hel- _lo_.”

“Looks like you were having fun,” Burr says, turning his head and blowing smoke in Alexander’s direction. “I’m sorry I’m so incredibly boring.”

Ah. So Burr is annoyed that he went off without him. Alexander never would’ve expected that Burr is so self-conscious, but he is, horribly so.

Alexander looks around them. Most people have gone back to their private rooms, but the remaining few are across the main room trying to figure out the piano, randomly hitting keys and cheering when something sounds halfway decent.

They are alone, unobserved.

He takes Burr’s glass and drinks from it — liquor burns Alexander’s throat, but he takes it all in one go. He looks at Burr over the rim, who is looking back like he wants to drink him down. Alexander wants him to, he wants Burr to take all that he wants and more.

Alexander places the glass in front of Burr and leans to his ear, whispers, “I’d have more fun with you.” He sits back, licks the residual liquor from his lips.

“Yeah?” Burr asks, smirking around his cigar.

Alexander plucks the cigar from his mouth, puts it out in the ashtray. Burr scowls at him, but not for long when Alexander slides his hand up Burr’s leg, curves between those strong thighs that he loves to put his face between. Burr doesn’t say anything, but his eyes go dark and he parts his legs for Alexander’s hand to explore further.

“So why don’t we go have our own fun?” Alexander rubs his thumb over Burr’s cock, now thick and hard in his breeches, and Burr hisses and grips the edge of the bar.

“Would you like that, Sir?” Alexander asks.

Burr is more than agreeable.

They escape upstairs, taking the steps slowly — taking plenty of chances for Alexander to rest, but he can’t really catch his breath because Burr keeps pressing him against the wall and kissing him at every opportunity. Alexander has to be the responsible one and get them to their room, but as soon as the door is locked behind them Burr takes charge and starts taking off Alexander’s clothes.

Alexander sighs when Burr gets his collar open and kisses his neck. He’s been waiting for this all night, to be with him like this.

“You like me.” Hearing it once more from him won’t hurt.

“Shut up,” Burr replies, but he _does_. He can’t not like him when he makes such delightful noises when Alexander kisses him, or smiles when he sees Alexander smiling at him — but then he gets mad at himself when he gives in to his wants. Fickle, moody Burr. Burr does like him, and he says it a few seconds later when Alexander kisses him and touches him down below—

“ _I like you, Alex.”_

 

* * *

 

The shop owner is an idiot. He must be to not see how Burr is looking at Alexander as he models new clothes.

Burr lounges in a chair as Alexander tries on outfit after outfit. Alexander likes them all, so he’d appreciate Burr’s opinion, but he hasn’t been very helpful. So far he has: insulted Alexander’s sense of style, called him chubby, and compared him to a girl shopping for her first ball gown. However, Burr does seem to enjoy looking at him, openly ogling his body.

Alexander dramatically pulls back the dressing room curtain, steps out. “How about this?” he asks, and does a little spin. This is his favorite outfit so far — a vibrant green jacket with blue and purple embroidery, paired a waistcoat that has matching designs but on an elegant gold satin. He feels like a million bucks.

Burr shrugs. “It’s alright, if you want to look like a peacock.”

Alexander would be offended, if Burr’s eyes didn’t drop down to where his breeches hug his crotch.

“I’ll get this one, too,” Alexander says, smiling when Burr groans. “Or I could try on a few more…”

“No.” Burr shoos him with his hand. “Go change so we can leave for supper.”

Code for: let’s get the hell out of here so I can get you naked.

“Fine,” Alexander says, turning around to go into the dressing room — but not before flipping up his coattails and showing off his ass, like a peacock presenting his tail feathers.

Alexander smiles when he hears Burr swear on the other side of the curtain. It’s so much fun to get him riled up like this, especially when they can resolve that tension. He knows it’s terrible, but sometimes he gets Burr irritated just so the man will take it out on him later, horizontally on their bed.

He’s half-undressed when the curtain parts. He goes to cover himself, but it’s only Burr, most likely coming to continue their aggressive flirtation.

“You couldn’t wait?” Alexander pulls up his breeches, does the buttons. “Aren’t you afraid it’ll look suspicious to be alone with a grown man in a dressing room?”

Burr is forced to stand close to him in the small room, and Alexander can hardly see him in the dim lighting, but he knows how Burr’s hands feel on his hips, and he knows what Burr wants when he presses him against the wall draped that’s in elegant red velvet.

“The shop owner is busy, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Burr mouths at Alexander’s jawline, nuzzles at his beard. “But he’s so oblivious I think you could suck me off right in front of him and he wouldn’t notice anything unusual.”

“Maybe he’d like it. He was getting a bit fresh with his hands when he was tailoring my inseam—”

Burr kisses him, nice and slow. The kind of kiss that makes Alexander weak in the knees and lightheaded. Noses bumping, tasting inside the each other’s mouth, too needy to care that it’s messy.

His lips feel wet and swollen when they part. He brushes them against Burr’s, and he feels Burr’s smile against his, and oh, that is the most wonderful thing.

He pulls away, and Burr is still smiling at him. “You think I’m pretty,” Alexander says. He tosses his hair over his shoulder and preens.

Burr makes a noise of consideration. “You’re hideous.”

“Liar.” Alexander pairs it with a kiss.

“Shithead,” Burr grumbles, pushing Alexander’s hair back, kisses the delicate curve of his ear.

“Dummy.”

“Saucepot.”

Alexander laughs, and he tries to be quiet but Burr keeps kissing that place on his neck that tickles. “You’re _ridiculous_ , Aaron Burr.”

“So are you,” Burr says, and Alexander has to stop him from being anymore ridiculous, or else they’d surely rouse suspicion, among other things.

 

* * *

 

Alexander puts his new clothes away and selects a new outfit for tomorrow — cornflower blue with beige frills. It’s after dinner and they’re enjoying their nightly quiet time apart before they join each other in bed. Usually, Alexander reads or writes letters to home while Burr smokes and writes in his top secret journal that he acts like Alexander doesn’t know he has.

It’s like how it is with Eliza; she’ll spend hours doing needlework while he’s in another room writing, and the time apart makes their moments together even sweeter. It isn’t about the conclusion of sex, not really. Alexander gets too antsy when she’s close to him, but not _with_ him. Separation anxiety. He used to be worse, he wanted to spend every moment with her, but Eliza has tempered that in him. She calls their separate time _reflection hours_ , and she’s had to assure him that it isn’t that she didn’t want him, but she needs time to herself, and he needs his own time, too. She had been right, of course, and he learned that there is a comfort in a relationship where you can trust that the other will come back to you, again and again.

And he has that with Burr, now.

He looks over to his new lover.

Burr scribbles in his journal, writing by candlelight. Once, Alexander had asked him what he wrote in there so diligently, but Burr snarled it was _private_ and threatened to shoot him again if he read it. Alexander doesn’t care much, but it is amusing the lengths Burr will go to keep the journal from him, hiding it in a new spot every few days, even though Alexander always figures out where he puts it. But he doesn’t read it — he doesn’t know if he’ll like what Burr writes about him.

Whatever it is Burr writes of, he’s entranced. He doesn’t even notice when Alexander walks across the room and comes behind Burr.

“Whatcha writing?”

Burr startles, cursing and blotting ink on the page. Alexander only gets a glimpse of what’s written — _and then he,_ or something like that, he doesn’t have his glasses on — before Burr shuts the cover.

“That’ll smear,” Alexander says. Burr turns around in his seat and glowers at him.

“You’re rather light-footed for a man with a limp,” Burr says.

“I was skilled in evasive maneuvers in the war.” Alexander sneaks a quick kiss, proving his point. Burr looks less annoyed after his ambush, so Alexander kisses him again, this time with another tactic planned.

“Ready for bed?” Alexander is very ready; he tugs on Burr’s sleeve, gives him that pouty-lip expression that Burr says he hates but can never refuse.

“Soon,” Burr says, smiling at Alexander’s impatience to get him in bed. “But first, I have something for you.”

Burr takes a package from the table that Alexander hadn’t noticed because he had been too concerned with Burr’s journal, and gives it to him. “Open it,” Burr says, and he looks just as eager to give the gift as Alexander is to receive it.

It’s neatly wrapped with a ribbon, and feels light when Alexander weighs it in his hands. He looks up to Burr, who encourages him with an unreadable smile — mouth with a small upturn on the ends, eyes dark and intense — and Alexander tears into the package like a child on Christmas morning. What could have Burr so _pleased_ to have gotten him…?

Alexander softly gasps. Black silk stockings with white seams up the back, more finely made with any other pair he has. The paper falls to the floor, the stockings flowing over his hands like ink spilling across a page.

“Burr…,” Alexander fumbles over his words, lost. Burr, that _fiend —_ he’s looking at him immodestly, and Alexander knows everything that Burr wants to do to him — take him apart and put him back together again just so he can have him once more. He looks at him without any reservation, and Alexander feels ablaze just from that alone.

“I thought you could try them on,” Burr says. He trails his fingers up Alexander’s thigh, curls his hand around his hip. “Would you do that for me, Alex?”

A shiver goes down Alexander’s spine. “Yes. _Fuck._ Absolutely.” He would do _anything_ for Burr right now.

Burr smiles.   “Good,” he says, and at his praise Alexander makes a noise that he’s kind of ashamed of, a high-pitched whimper in his throat. Burr must know the effect praise has on him because he laughs, that horrible, horrible man. He continues, “I was thinking that I could help you put them on.”

Alexander thinks of that time months ago, when Burr undressed him, taking his stockings off of him slowly, as if he were savoring each inch of skin revealed. That was when Alexander knew that Burr wanted him. He’ll never forget what Burr’s touch felt like on his skin — curious, nervous but sure, the lightest touch searing hot but made him shiver all over. It’s like Burr’s fingerprints were burned on him, leaving him scarred.

“Would you like me to help you?” Burr presses his face to Alexander’s leg, kissing him through the fabric, then looks up at him. “Do you want that, Alex?”

“Yes,” Alexander says, and then adds, “Please,” because if Burr doesn’t he thinks he’ll die.

Burr is happy. He’s happy because of Alexander and he hasn’t taken a dose of his happy-making opium all day, or the day before if Alexander is correct. Burr is happy because he’s with him, and finally _finally_ Alexander believes that things are going the way they should.

Burr stands up and kisses Alexander rough, wet and biting and teasing, like it’s a preview of what’s to come. Alexander sighs into it, kissing him back, but Burr grabs Alexander’s lapels in his fists and draws his head back just enough so he can growl against his lips, “Take everything off and get on the bed.”

Alexander takes great pride in caring for his clothes, but he isn’t concerned with their neatness right now. He strips them off like they’re burning his skin, letting them fall into messy heaps on the floor. His cravat and coat go first, and then he tries to shove his breeches down and take off his waistcoat at the same time but his breeches get stuck around his knees while he focuses on undoing buttons on his waistcoat, which is something amazingly difficult to do while horny.

Burr doesn’t offer to help. He seems to enjoy seeing Alexander make haste to get naked for him as quickly as possible. If Alexander didn’t want his hands on him so badly, he’d make Burr wait, he’d take off his clothes one piece at a time and make him beg to see what’s underneath. But that can be later. He can wait. He’s getting good at waiting. He rids himself of his breeches and then his stockings and he’s as bare as a blank canvas, then he sits on the edge of the bed, already hard with the promise of what Burr is going to do to him.

“Lie down,” Burr says, _orders_ , authoritative in such a way that Alexander is compelled to obey. Alexander stretches out on his back, limbs akimbo, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth in an attempt to relax and to be patient and _good._ He’s trying — goddamn, he’s trying — but he’s anticipating Burr. He can hear Burr moving about in their small room, his clothes rustling. Alexander is too curious and has to take a peek, craning his head up to see. He’s never had any restraint.

“Cheater,” Burr says. He’s mostly undressed, except for his shirt, and he is purposely taking too long. _He’s_ the cheater — he shouldn’t expect things that he knows Alexander won’t be able to do, like: wait while he’s standing in front of him, gorgeous and perfect.

But Burr’s eyes darken when he looks at Alexander laid out in front of him. Alexander feels himself blush all over and his cock fill out more and he wants to be touched but he likes this too, being admired and wanted by Burr. There’s an energy between them that neither can deny, he knows that Burr feels it too, it’s why they’ve always been drawn to each other…

Burr kneels at the foot of the bed, laying the gifted stockings aside. He smiles, almost coyly, and gently pushes Alexander’s ankle to get him to move his legs apart. Alexander spreads them and he blushes even more because he feels very exposed, but Burr is as calm as he’s been all evening and sits between Alexander’s feet.

Alexander expects Burr to get on with it and put the stockings on him, but he doesn’t. Burr touches him slow and careful, as though he’s reveling in touching Alexander and being able to. Burr touches Alexander’s right foot, which is kind of odd — Alexander doesn’t think anyone has ever paid attention to his feet before — but it feels nice. Burr runs his hand over the top, curves against the heel, rubs the bottom of his foot. He’s about to ask Burr what in the hell he’s doing because it kind of tickles, but Burr presses his thumb in the arch of his foot, massaging, and _fuuuck_ it feels amazing, relief for thirty years of pain he didn’t know he had.

“Does that feel good?” Burr rubs harder, and an involuntary whimper escapes Alexander. “Alex?”

“Yes! Wonderful. Extraordinary — _ah!_ ”

Burr switches his attentions to Alexander’s other foot, which holds just as many aches. Alexander moans as Burr massages him, and his tensions disappear one by one, until he melts like butter on a summer day.

He’s relaxed but still aroused — even more so, now — and he _wants._ All he can manage to get out is, “Please,” but it seems to be enough for Burr to understand. Burr’s hands are away from him only for a moment, and then he feels Burr’s comforting touch on him again and softness at his toes. He points his foot on instinct and Burr carefully slips the stocking on past his toes and over his heel, tormentingly slow. Burr leaves the stocking bunched at his ankle as he runs his hands up Alexander’s leg, past his calf and over his knee and the curve of his thigh, and brushes over his cock briefly, just enough to make Alexander push into his palm. Burr chuckles, that evil man — but Alexander forgives him when he rakes his hands back down his leg, one on each side. Burr pulls the stocking up, smoothly, and he bends over and kisses each part of Alexander’s leg before he covers it with the silk. Alexander can still feel the imprint of his lips on his skin under the stockings, and Burr’s markings make the stockings fit even better — he looks down the line of his body to see Burr laboring over his body and it’s almost too much—

The stockings end just over his knee, and Burr kisses there, too. For a moment Alexander is disappointed, but then he remembers that he has a whole other leg for Burr to worship. Alexander points his bare foot for Burr to put the stocking on, and he begins again.

“You’re too damn pretty for your own good, you know that?” Burr asks, his voice hardly above a mumble, as if he were talking to himself. He kisses Alexander’s shin, pulls the stocking over it. “Of course you know this. You strut around like a peacock. You’re _proud_ of yourself for being handsome, and that’s incredibly attractive. I should have had you like this sooner, all laid out for me…”

And then the stocking is fully on. Burr kisses where it stops, splays his fingers on Alexander’s thigh and gently bites the soft flesh there. A jolt goes through Alexander’s body and he thrusts up, seeking contact. He’s been patient, he’s been _good_. And how could Burr resist him now, his legs covered in silk and his cock achingly hard for him?

It’s the most erotic Alexander has ever felt. Filthy, but the good kind. He moans, writhes on the bed, legs twisting, and he opens his eyes to see Burr looking at him in a way that makes him feel even more obscene. There is no doubt that Burr wants him. Any denial would be a lie, but he still needs reassurance, as if he still isn’t sure it’s real.

“Please,” Alexander whispers. _We’re good. It’s fine._ “Burr.”

And that’s all that is needed to convince Burr.

Burr starts gentle, kissing Alexander’s thighs, one then the other, making delightful smooching noises — but he quickly departs from tantalizing him to being outright risqué. He runs his hands up Alexander’s legs from his ankle, his touch extra sensitive through the stockings, then his hands are on bare skin, sliding under his ass. He leaves them there, squeezing as he presses his face between Alexander’s thighs, noses at his balls, and then licks him from base to cockhead, licking around the glands and parts his lips, taking him into his mouth.

Burr has gotten really good at this. Excellent. Alexander has always said that practice makes perfect. Alexander feels sexy when he sucks cock, but he knows he’s a mess. Messy with spit and sweat and sloppiness and a lack of shame. It’s sex; it’s supposed to be messy and gross. However, Burr has finesse when he gives head, as he does with everything. It’s no wonder all the ladies like being with him. Burr gets filthy too, but he somehow makes it look gorgeous when he’s slobbering all over his dick. He’s precise and committed to giving them both what they want, but roguish and licentious enough to match Alexander’s needs, which makes him _irresistible_. Burr had been self-conscious at first, but Alexander has given him very encouraging, very vocal feedback…

“Oh— yes, like that—” he gasps. Burr cradles his ballsack in one hand, rubs his thumb over the stones while he sucks him. Alexander loves his balls played with and bless Burr for appeasing him—

Burr is a very good learner. He does a lovely thing with his tongue that makes Alexander tremble all over, then gives his balls a light squeeze which makes Alexander’s cock twitch in his mouth, but Burr just laughs — Alexander can feel it, muffled around his length — and he looks so damn good, Alexander loves this, having this _thing_ with Burr. Alexander wants it forever, he wants Burr to dress him in fine clothes and touch him all over, he wants him all to himself to have forever—

Burr backs off of his cock, then sits back on his knees and takes off his shirt. It’s almost unfair that he looks so good naked and his cock heavy between his legs. Stupid Burr and his stupid toned body and his stupid nice cock with a pretty pink head peeking out of its foreskin. Alexander makes a noise of complaint — that Burr still looks many years younger than him and that Burr isn’t touching him yet — but Burr is kind and crawls up his body and lays on top of him. They fit perfectly, Burr’s legs between Alexander’s, chest to chest, face to face.

“Hello.” Burr kisses Alexander on the mouth, and Alexander tries to deepen it but Burr pulls away, smiling. Asshole.

Alexander feels Burr’s hardness against his, and he moves his hips to get the friction he’s missing — Burr swears and rubs back, starting a frantic pace of them rubbing their cocks together. Alexander hooks a leg around Burr to brace them, silk stockings rubbing against Burr’s skin, and Burr’s mumbled incoherent mix of swears and praise is loud in his ear and all Alexander can do is cling to him as he grinds back, matching him.

“Mine,” Burr says, and Alexander shudders and comes with Burr’s mouth at his neck and body on top of his.

After, Burr is still half-slumped on Alexander, his elbow pressing against Alexander’s ribs, but that’s fine. He smells nice and he kisses and licks Alexander’s neck like he is tasting a fine dish, so Alexander can let small discomforts slide for greater comforts. His new stockings rolled down during their activities but he can’t be bothered to fix them or take them off. He just wants to continue to lie there, with Burr pressed against him.

“Why?” Alexander asks, his voice quiet, almost like it’s a question for himself. Why does Burr do these things for him? Why have things happened the way they have? Why has Burr changed, what has made him affectionate and kind and honest?

“Why not?” Burr replies, and, well—

— _why not,_ indeed?

 

* * *

 

He thinks he mostly has Burr figured out. He’s learned that Burr is, well, _Burr_ and sometimes that’s all the explanation there is. Once he has accepted that, they’re much better — happy, even. Not intermittently, but more often than the bad. Days when they wake up happy and all day they’re happy and they go to sleep happy, too. They aren’t without their bad days but it’s just part of it. It’s definitely, definitely worth it. They are good together. They understand each other in a way that nobody else can, the sex is amazing, and Burr is starting to feel _safe_ having feelings for him, so he’s much more affectionate. It’s everything Alexander wanted. It’s perfect.

Or it would be, if Alexander weren’t a terrible liar.

He remembers spilling his soul about John Laurens, and he remembers Burr being heartsick over a man who was only platonic to him. Burr lives with a lifetime of repression that he is the way he is, and mourns for what could have been. Alexander recognizes that grief, because he often imagines what his life would’ve been like if John didn’t die…and then he hates himself when he thinks that it was probably for the best. Alexander had immersed himself in work to distract himself from his grief, and if John were alive he would have been another distraction.

He and Burr were both so incredibly honest under the influence, and it was the most unreserved Burr has ever been. Perhaps that’s why Alexander lied. He didn’t want to know Burr’s secrets when he could only tell him when his inhibitions were gone, but it felt like cheating. He remembers it all, he could say, _I remember you laying your head on my chest as you told me about a man you didn’t love but almost did._ He’s told Burr about Laurens before, he’s been open about his past, but Burr is unduly taciturn when it comes to his own. Alexander should have forced him to confront their truths. He should have said, _yes_ , emotionally, and they could’ve supported each other…

It would advance their relationship forward, or end it.

So, Alexander keeps these secrets, for both of them. He tries to understand if Burr can’t cope with the truth. It’s somewhat disturbing that Burr can be that removed, but grief and acceptance are tremendous afflictions, and hard to beat.

 

* * *

 

It’s one of those days when Burr is crotchety and Alexander knows it’s best to leave him alone to sort through his emotions about whatever is bothering him, since sometimes Alexander does tend to make it worse, unintentionally.

Alexander has grown bored of London. It had been exciting at first with its newness, but it quickly wore off. Burr seems to fit in the city well, and Alexander wonders if Burr would have ever left if he hadn’t followed him across the ocean…

…but then he remembers that Burr _hasn’t_ agreed to leave and go home. Every time Alexander brings it up, Burr gets a sour look on his face and changes the subject, and Alexander won’t force Burr into it, so — they don’t talk about it. It joins the category of things they don’t acknowledge, such as: their duel, the time Burr overheard Alexander having an erotic dream about Jefferson, when Burr set his shirt on fire, if this actually counts as infidelity.

 _It doesn’t count,_ he tells himself. It’s different than before, his dearest Betsy gave him permission — she all but forced him with Burr — and it would feel like a different type of infidelity if he didn’t have _this_ with Burr. They’re supposed to be together, it would be a sin if they weren’t — but he doesn’t know why he feels terrible when he thinks of Eliza when he’s with Burr. He can’t talk about it with Burr, because they don’t talk about it, and Eliza is too far away…

But Alexander can talk to Bentham. Bentham has good advice — especially when it comes to men — and he always gives it, unwanted or not. Alexander doesn’t tell Burr he’s going to visit Bentham. He figures that Burr would get all _jealous_ and even _more_ moody, so he just tells him he’s going _out_ and then he catches a carriage ride across the city.

Bentham is sympathetic to Alexander’s troubles, listening to Alexander admit, _I like him but we can’t ignore our lives forever_ and _I want him to be a part of my life but I feel like he doesn’t want me a part of his._

“I know he likes me,” Alexander says. “He can be really sweet.” He blushes. “He buys me nice things and calls me pet names like _saucepot._ ”

“What does that mean?” Bentham asks. “Is that because you’re saucy?”

“I don’t know. It’s from some book, I think.” Alexander shakes his head. “He does things like that, but he doesn’t want to talk about our future together, which makes me think that he doesn’t want one.”

Bentham smiles at him, which isn’t at all what Alexander expected. Doesn’t he understand he has a problem that sucking dick won’t solve?

“Don’t you know what the problem is?” Bentham asks.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be prattling on about how Aaron Burr has me all befuddled,” Alexander says. He doesn’t like not knowing.

Bentham sighs. It makes Alexander feel like an idiot.

“Burr avoids discussion of home because he’s afraid that you’ll stop your _partnership_ when you go back to your real life in the States,” Bentham explains, as though it’s obvious. “He thinks that by avoiding the topic, then he never has to come to terms that he’ll lose you.”

Alexander laughs at the absurdity of it. Aloof and cold-hearted Burr, anxious over them…them breaking up? Burr _shot_ him for Christ’s sake. Almost killing him is worse than not kissing or sucking each other off anymore.

(Alexander would miss the blowjobs. He would miss the kissing, too. Probably even more than sucking Burr’s perfect, gorgeous cock.)

“Burr isn’t that stupid,” Alexander says, but then Bentham gives him a look and he corrects himself. “Okay, I guess he _is_ that stupid. He does tend to fret. Did he tell you this? It doesn’t seem like something he’d say.”

“You do know your Aaron well, because he hasn’t said it,” Bentham says. “However, Burr does not have to tell me with words. The way he acts around you tells me everything.” He leans in, touches Alexander’s chin with his thumb, rubbing his beard. “I cannot blame him. I would fear losing you too, if I had you.”

Bentham is so close that he can feel the heat of his breath on his face. He’s tempting. Maybe he’s doing it as a test, to see if Alexander is faithful to Burr, but Alexander thinks that if he gave into Bentham’s flirting, Bentham would bend him over in an instant and fuck him until he can’t walk, and then call the entire thing an _experiment._

Alexander pulls away from him, and Bentham smiles, as though he’s been proven correct.

“But it isn’t true,” Alexander says. “I wouldn’t leave him high and dry — pun unintended — and if anything, I’m the one who should worry about being abandoned. He’s always running off without me.”

“He won’t,” Bentham says. “Not anymore.”

Alexander wishes he could believe that.

 

* * *

 

Alexander needs to clear his head, so he walks back to the inn. He doesn’t notice the pain as much while his mind is distracted, but then he realizes he’s halfway there and a familiar pang throbs in his side and he has to hobble to the corner to wait for the next carriage going his way. The first one doesn’t notice him, but it does splash water on his shoes, and the next available carriage is packed and he has to sit in such a way that makes his side cramp more. The guy next to him smells like onions and tries to talk to him, but Alexander ignores him and looks out the window, thinking about how mad he is with Burr — that he’s kind of the reason why his side hurts so badly, and he’s why he’s in this godforsaken city because he’s too skittish, and he’s mad that Burr is such an idiot that he can’t tell him how he feels, but then Alexander realizes that he hasn’t really told Burr how he feels, either.

So, he isn’t in a great mood when he arrives. He has to use his cane more heavily to compensate for the pain, which makes his leg hurt from walking lopsided. He hopes Burr is in better spirits because now it’s _his_ turn to be mad at the world.

Robert stops him on the way to the stairs. His goddamn gait gives him away. He could never lead a sneak attack on the enemy, now.

“Fancy a game of chess, Youngster?” Robert asks. “You can be the white pieces this time.”

Robert shoves the white rook in Alexander’s hand — he had chipped a piece in all the white pieces so he could tell the difference without his sight.

Alexander gives it back.

“Not today,” he says. “I was really looking forward to going up for a rest.”

“You can rest with me,” Robert says, walking in step with him. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass.” Alexander hopes that Burr will feel guilty enough that he’ll rub his aching muscles. And then rub something else.

Robert grabs his arm. “You should stay down here for an hour.” He shrugs. “Maybe thirty minutes at most. You look tired.”

“That joke isn’t funny anymore.” Alexander gets suspicious. “Why are you keeping me from going upstairs?”

Robert sputters, having been caught in his scheme, and Alexander goes up the stairs — his pains have alleviated, temporarily, or maybe he just forces past them — and goes to their room and flings open the door.

Michelle is naked in their bed, and Burr is also nude, and on top of her and buried inside her. While thrusting in, Burr looks over to Alexander in the doorway.

Burr could at least _slow down,_ if not stop. But he does neither. He just says, “Hello, Alex,” and turns back to Michelle — he wouldn’t want to miss any of it, since he paid for it.

Alexander should be mad. Mad that Burr is doing this in _their_ bed where they have their quiet and intimate moments. He should be mad that Burr brought in a beautiful woman and he has to avert his eyes because he will not allow himself to check out her breasts. He should be mad that Burr is fucking someone who isn’t him. But he can’t be mad because he’s too damn turned on. Neither participant is shy — and Alexander isn’t either — so he watches. If they’re going to fuck in his bed, he has the right to be a voyeur.

Burr moves like he’s made for sex. He fucks like it’s effortless for him, with a body made for pleasure, both receiving and giving. But he isn’t careless by any means. Alexander almost hates Burr for how good he looks, if he didn’t like looking at him so much.

From this angle, he has an exceptional view of Burr’s ass. He watches as it clenches when Burr does something perfect, moving deep inside his whore and making them both moan — and Alexander whimpers along with them — his fine skin sheening with sweat, looking like polished ebony, his thrusts speeding up, he’s close, Alexander can smell it, and Alexander wishes he were under him instead…

“You can join us,” Michelle says, voice jolted from Burr moving on top of her. It’s a wonder she can say anything at all when getting fucked that hard. It must be practice. “I think your man has enough stamina for the both of us.”

Burr says something that Alexander can’t hear, but Michelle laughs and that’s all Alexander can take.

He can still hear them through in the hallway, even with the door shut.

He leans his back against the wall, and tries to focus on his anger more than his arousal.

It doesn’t quite work.

It’s at least twenty minutes more until Michelle exits their room. She gives him a sympathetic smile, like _it’s just business_ , then she goes downstairs. She leaves the door open, and apparently Burr is too shy to come fetch him, so Alexander goes inside.

Burr doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed. He’s smoking by the window, wearing his robe tied loosely around the waist and open at his chest. He glances over when he Alexander enters the room.

“Hello,” he says, just as passive as he did earlier when Alexander walked in on him in the middle of sexual intercourse. He knocks some ashes from the end of his cigar, and then takes another inhale.

Alexander does not respond. He won’t reinforce this behavior. They’ve talked about this. He doesn’t care if Burr sleeps with other people — well, he does care a bit but Burr has his _needs_. But Alexander would like to _know_ about it first.

Alexander goes over to the bed, limping — maybe he exaggerates it somewhat, but he does hurt and Burr made him feel worse — and starts to strip the bedding. He throws the pillows on the floor, the duvet, the sheets. He won’t lie on a bed that’s covered in the scent of his lover with someone else. It makes him feel disgusting. It reminds him of that year when he changed his bed sheets a lot — in secret — because all he could think of was fucking some woman half his age while he laid with his wife.

(Eliza had burned their mattress after she found out what he did.)

Burr doesn’t say anything as Alexander fights with the tangled blankets, nor does he offer help. But eventually Alexander gets all of them off and into a pile on the floor. He looks at the bare bed. The mattress is covered in stains old and new. The newer ones are their damage, no doubt.

He wrinkles his nose. He should have let the maid change the bed.

“Are you embarrassed?” Burr asks. “If anything, we’re even.”

Alexander stares at him.

“Since I interrupted your coitus that one time,” Burr says, and adds, “with Eliza, in your office,” like he didn’t know what he was talking about. How could Alexander forget? It was the first time that he was certain that Burr was _interested_ , and Eliza didn’t stop talking about the incident for weeks: _Burr was looking at both of us, did you notice? It was actually kind of sexy. Of course you noticed, you took me with much more vigor afterwards. Do you think he’d want to watch more? Maybe next time we could show more skin. I think he wanted to touch your bum —_ and so on. Terrible tease, his wife.

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because…” Alexander cannot think of a reason that makes sense because it all is too close to whining, _because it IS!_ like a child, and he doesn’t want to fight with Burr over technicalities, so he goes for accusation instead.

“You knew I would see. You did it on purpose,” Alexander says. “If you had told me—”

Burr laughs. “What? You’d arrange to watch more?”

“Well…” Alexander clears his throat. “If it wasn’t a surprise, I would be more open to the idea.”

Burr takes advantage of the cigar in his mouth to delay his response. He turns his head to blow smoke out the window, and taps the ashes away again. They get caught in the wind, and are carried off.

“Does that mean that I could watch you and Eliza?” Burr asks. His expression is flat, but then the corner of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile, and Alexander can’t decide if he’s joking or not.

Alexander wouldn’t be joking. He’s thought about Burr watching him and Eliza together. He’s also fantasized having them both at the same time — Eliza sitting on his dick while Burr fucks his mouth…

“I should challenge you to a duel,” he says. “For being so disgraceful.”

“Go ahead.”

Alexander closes the distance between them, slowly walking towards where Burr rests. Burr shifts — nervous? unsure? — but he smiles when Alexander is in front of him. Alexander returns the smile, takes his cigar and lays it on the windowsill.

“Who’s going to take the first shot?” asks Burr.

Alexander lightly laughs and ducks his head down, but Burr puts his hand under his chin, tilts it up so he looks at him. There is no more of that hesitation within Burr, and Alexander will forgive Burr a thousand times as long as he wants him.

“Scoundrel,” Alexander says. “Dangerous man—”

Burr kisses him first.

 

* * *

 

They edge around fighting but it never comes to anything, with nothing more than snide comments veiled to hide their endearment, mumbled between kisses.

Alexander would like to argue, but he can’t say what he’s really upset about. He keeps thinking of Burr sharing his affection with other people, like that mysterious Jonathan Bellamy. He’s mad with himself for how stupidly jealous he’s being. He’s confused because of what Bentham told him, that Burr is afraid that he’ll leave him, and he’s hurt that Burr would believe such a thing.

But he can’t let Burr know any of this. It’s all things he isn’t supposed to know. He has to be okay.

They don’t fight, and they can’t have sex either because the bed is still unmade and dirty — plus it’s too soon for Burr to get it up again — so they opt to go out for a walk and dinner instead. Spend time together like a real couple would, if they were allowed. But luckily, good friends can do the same without any scrutiny.

They’ve all but given up pretending that they aren’t an item around the inn. Everyone has their secrets at The Wayward — the salesman knows his wife fucks men while he’s gone during the day, the woman and her collection of shawls, Robert with his alcoholism, the young guy who mixes compounds in his room, the Frenchman who speaks no English but Michelle says that he likes to be slapped during sex, the two women who call each other _wife._

(One evening, Alexander went over to the two women and asked about their arrangement. They had thought that he wanted something from them, but then he explained, _No, my daughter is like you,_ and then they understood.)

Alexander is grateful for the freedom to _be_ without fear. It’s helped Burr accept them together, being seen as _okay_ to exist somewhere, no matter how small or shoddy. They do need to belong somewhere, and Alexander feared that Burr would hate himself so much that he’d hate him, too.

But he doesn’t. Burr could never hate him, and he didn’t hate him when he stood across a New Jersey field — he was always a soft spot for Burr, that’s why Burr was so angry—

They walk into the main room together, and Burr is too busy looking at Alexander and talking to him, like he’s in an one-man competition for Alexander’s attention, that he accidentally runs into someone.

“My apologies,” Burr says. He bends to pick up the book the man had been carrying, and holds it out for him.

Alexander recognizes the man as the newest patron to the inn, an Englishman who hasn’t socialized much with anyone. He was right to think of him as unfriendly. The man snatches the book from Burr, sneers and brushes dust off his jacket that isn’t there. As though Burr _dirtied_ him.

“Watch where you’re going, _bender_ ,” the man snarls, and then knocks Burr’s shoulder with his as he walks past him.

Alexander hasn’t been this angry in a quite some time — how _dare_ someone be so rude to his…to his Burr when they’re in a safe place, how dare he when Burr has just been comfortable being with a man. He looks to Burr, and judging by the look of panic on Burr’s face, he knows exactly what the man meant with the derogatory slur.

“You should apologize,” Alexander says, loud enough for the man to hear. By now, the others in the room have paused their activities and turned to them to see what’s happening. Good. He’ll have witnesses.

“Alexander, _no_ ,” Burr harshly whispers, but it’s too late. The man looks over his shoulder at Hamilton. He smiles, like he’s looking for a fight, too, and he slowly saunters back over to them.

“So he got his bender buddy to stick up for him,” the man says. He looks Alexander up and down. “Aren’t I right?”

“You’re being rude,” Alexander says, patient. “You should apologize.”

“And what if I don’t?” The man laughs. He laughs at Alexander and _oh—_

 _—_ that is the worst thing he could have done.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to hit me with your cane, old man? This isn’t a damn molly house where you can flaunt your disgusting deviance.”

Next to Alexander, Burr quickly tells him to _stop being a fool,_ but he should know Alexander better. This guy doesn’t know who he’s talking to — Alexander once challenged the entire Democratic-Republican party to a duel just because they were annoying him. Alexander takes a threatening step forward, and stares the man eye-to-eye, not backing down. Robert tries to intervene, saying he’ll buy them all a drink and he’s sure they can clear their misunderstanding, but Alexander won’t listen.

He’s had people push him around his whole life because of their bigoted prejudices — he’s been too foreign, too poor, too bastard-born, too _different_ — but he’s had enough, and he sure as hell won’t let anyone do it to people he cares about.

“How about I, an old man, kick your ass?” Alexander says, seeing red and lunging forward, but Burr grabs his arm and pulls him away.

“Leave it be,” Burr says. He always takes the high road, except for his occasional detours, like shooting him, or telling off Thomas Jefferson in front of the entire inaugural party.

He wishes Burr would take one of those detours now, but he keeps tugging on Alexander’s arm until he has to follow him. The small crowd parts for them as they pass, and he hears someone else arguing with the man. Michelle pats Alexander on the back as they leave, the large man gives him a very animated thumbs up, and the innkeeper says that he’s going to kick the guy out.

Alexander counts it as a victory.

Burr finally lets go of him when they’re a block away from the inn, stopping at their most frequented café. Burr sits, and Alexander takes the seat across from him. He expects Burr will be mad with him, but when he sees his face, he isn’t angry at all.

“What's a molly house?” Burr asks.

Alexander blushes. “It’s where men go to find other men to, uh, be with.” He only knows because Bentham mentioned it to him a few visits ago when Burr decided to stay in and sulk; Bentham told him all about his favorite _molly houses_ in town, where he goes to pick up men for the evening (“it's wonderfully uninhibited, most couples don’t bother to close the door when they have their sexual union,” Bentham had said, and Alexander quickly changed the subject because he thought Bentham was _this_ close to asking him and Burr to accompany him to his next visit to the place).

"Oh," Burr says. He still isn't angry, or embarrassed like Alexander had expected. If anything, he's amused.

“What were you thinking?” Burr asks, but it sounds like it’s more out of admiration than scolding, or anything else. “You didn’t have to protect me.”

“I wanted to,” Alexander says, quickly. “I’m sorry if I caused a scene but I couldn’t stand by and let that guy humiliate you. I had to say something, because I knew you wouldn’t…couldn’t, and I don’t want you to be afraid—”

“Alex, I am fine.”

“I know, you’re always _fine,_ but when you aren’t I promise I’ll be there for you.”

Alexander bites his lip — he had spoke without thinking — but it’s honest. He’s stuck with Burr, for better or worse. When he saw Burr reading a book on the street over thirty years ago, he knew that he was going to be significant in his life, but he just didn’t know how — it had been the same when he first saw Eliza, he…he just _knew._ Thinking of Eliza makes him think about home and much his heart aches, but that home now includes _Burr_ and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t have both.

“My hero,” says Burr.

“I’m _serious_ , Burr.”

“I know.”

Burr smiles at him, broad and bright and true. He looks around their surroundings — the other tables are empty, too late for lunch and too early for supper — and then puts his arms under the table and leans forward.

Alexander does the same, and it’s like reaching underneath into the unknown — but there, he finds Burr’s hand waiting for his. They twine their fingers together, and they stay like that for a moment, just enough to satisfy their need for contact, until they mutually decide to let go at the same time so one doesn’t have to break away first.

 

* * *

 

The two find a quiet place in the nearby park where they would not be disturbed. Burr feeds stale bread to the ducks in the pond while Alexander rests his tired body on a nearby bench. It’s amusing to watch Burr, especially when he is tickled pink as the ducks swarm around him, nibbling crumbs off the ground. The most belligerent of the ducks bites Burr’s sleeve, squawking violently and flapping its wings; Burr yelps and waves his arm to rid of the beast, and then half runs to safety, then calmly sits down next to Alexander, as though nothing happened.

Alexander can’t help but tease him, just a little bit, doing an impression of Burr escaping the duck, shrieking and waving his arms like a windmill on a blustery day. Burr glares at him, says, “It was going for my jugular,” very seriously, but Alexander just kisses that strong, thick pulse at his neck.

Burr freezes, and Alexander swears that he can feel Burr’s pulse stop against his lips. They are alone, nobody to see — but yet, Burr turns his head away from Alexander, breaking their contact and ruining the moment.

Alexander knows better than to try again.

It looks as though Burr is battling inner demons, his handsome jaw clenched hard-set and nostrils flaring with every exhale and he looks so _angry,_ but Alexander knows he isn’t upset with him — Burr is upset with himself, his own worst enemy.

“Burr, I’m so sorry.” He really does mean it, he doesn’t want Burr to hurt, never never never.

He puts his hand over Burr’s, says softly, “Please talk to me.”

“I know I have these desires…,” Burr says, looking at him and lowering his voice, “…for men, but it isn’t easy to accept.”

Alexander nods. “I knew very young that I liked boys and girls. It took me a while to realize it wasn’t _normal._ ” He’s already told this to Burr, but he isn’t supposed to remember. It’s easier to repeat, sober. “It didn’t stop me when I realized I was different. I’ve never done well doing what’s conventional.”

Burr snorts. He can laughs all he wants, but most of Alexander’s successes have been because he chose the unconventional route. He ignores Burr, and continues.

“I liked looking at boys, and I liked to spend time with them. I had, ah, crushes. I thought I was madly in love with one, only to be infatuated with another the next week. And then there were the girls too…”

“Did any of the boys like you?” Burr asks, continuing this charade that their other conversation didn’t happen. Alexander knows Burr knows, but to call him out would mean he lied, and, well, that’s worse. Probably.

“A few,” Alexander says. “At home — on my island — there was a boy a year older than me. I was sixteen. I don’t remember his name but I remember that his hair was the color of a sunflower. He was one of the few who didn’t treat me lesser because of my parentage. He was kind.” Alexander smiles. “I remember one summer day just like this, but hotter — it’s so horribly humid on Nevis. We ran through the sugar cane field, chasing each other, and then we caught each other and ended up toppling to the ground. He was on top of me, both of us breathing hard and then he kissed me. I went home that night inspired and wrote him a poem. Something about kisses tasting of pure sugar. When I read it to him the next day he kissed me again. And again and… I wrote a follow up poem about sucking on his sugar cane that produced sweet juices. That was a good summer.”

Burr blushes ever so slightly, a rosy darkening blooming high in his cheeks. “What happened to this boy?”

The memory turns dark. Alexander doesn’t remember his sugar cane lover’s name, but he remembers reading his name in the listed dead from the hurricane. He had no money and couldn’t buy a paper so he had to wait his turn to read it in the window in one of the few remaining buildings in town…

“We lost touch,” Alexander says, because _he died a year later_ kills the mood. He sighs, and starts again. “But what I mean is that these feelings aren’t new for me.”

He’s always been cocksure with women, but with men he had been…shy. Careful. He’s still shy, if he’s honest. It’s a lot of vulnerability to reveal that part of himself. So, he knows what Burr is going through, that fear of exploring a map uncharted, but the bravery to take that risk.

Burr looks rather brave. “Was he the only one?”

“No,” Alexander says, blushing slightly. “When you’re like us, you learn to notice it with others. Like knows like, as they say.”

Very serious, Burr asks, “Did you know it about me when we met?”

“You’ve always been a mystery to me,” Alexander says, but Burr makes a face, so Alexander pats his leg. ‘That’s a _good_ thing. I like mysteries.”

“I’m not a puzzle for you to figure out.”

“You know what I mean.”

Burr fiddles with a loose thread on his coat, wraps it around his finger and snaps the thread off. “Yes, I know.”

Alexander hates this — he hates that Burr hurts.

“Laurens had difficulty accepting his desires, too.” Alexander hates the frown Burr gets every time he mentions Laurens, but he doesn’t tell him to stop, so.

“He tried so hard to not want me, or other men. He used to make me so _mad_ when he would say he didn’t, but thirty minutes later he’d be on his knees and begging for me to undo my breeches.” Alexander laughs. “He went and knocked up the first woman he could bed, just to prove…I don’t know. He didn’t even fancy women in that way. He said he had to close his eyes and imagine it was me to finish the deed.”

“I’m sure he had a certain acquaintance with your body to conjure up that image.”

Alexander slaps Burr’s knee. “Don’t be nasty. Laurens and I were never physical in the way you’re thinking.” Laurens had to go and die before they could explore _that_ with themselves — the time to be patient, opening each other up slow and thoroughly enjoy it, to _make love_ — but instead all they had were quickies using only their hands and mouths and they couldn’t thoroughly enjoy it because there were more important things to worry about, like being heard through thin tents or dying in battle—

—but oh, what they had was _wonderful._ His dear sweet Laurens. Love is larger than forgetting.

“I loved him,” Alexander says, admitting it this go-around, and Burr looks just as…uncomfortable? resentful? as before.

“I loved him, and I told him all the time,” Alexander says. “But he never really said it back to me. I know he wasn’t able to. I knew he loved me, and that’s what matters. He had issues, with feelings.”

Burr looks like he’s trying very hard to not have some _feelings_ of his own.

“How do you know he loved you?” he asks.

 _Like how you know that your Bellamy loved you_ , Alexander almost says, but it’s a secret they both carry, so he just smiles and says—

“I just knew.”

 

* * *

 

Not wanting to go back to the inn and deal with the follow up from earlier, they extend their outing to the pub. It isn’t until an hour and two drinks later that Alexander is able to muster enough of that very specific bravery to say what he’s wanted to say all day—

“Things won’t change when we go home,” he says, hushed, so quiet and secretive that Burr has to incline his head toward him to hear over the loud chatter in the pub. “Nothing will change, unless you want it to.”

Shock passes over Burr’s face, but he recovers quickly.

“Why would I want it to change?” he asks, like the thought never occurred to him at all.

Alexander breathes a sigh of relief. It’s amazing what happens when they actually talk with each other.

“Of course, there are a few changes I wouldn’t say no to,” Burr says and Alexander is really worried for a moment, until Burr smiles at him _._ “For starters, it’d be nice if you didn’t drool on my shoulder when we sleep.”

“Hmm, no. I can’t stop that. Do you have any other requests?”

“You steal my quills, break them, and return them like I won’t notice the difference.”

“I do replace them with new ones,” Alexander says, but then Burr raises his brows at him, so he adds, “Sometimes.”

Burr wrangles his smile into a straight line, but his dimples betray him, pinched in his cheeks.

“No,” Burr says, “You’re practically perfect — uh. Um.”

He stops short, like he hadn’t intended to say that, and Alexander feels himself blushing scarlet.

“Isn’t there anything you’d like to change about me?” Burr asks. He sounds almost hopeful that Alexander will say that he hates something about him, that self-deprecating fool. There is plenty that Alexander would like for him to change, such as: forgive himself, quit the laudanum entirely, stop smoking, actually _say_ what he wants.

“I wish you’d stop being so handsome,” Alexander says. “It’s too much competition for me.”

Burr rolls his eyes, but Alexander knows he’s twitterpated. He hides his face behind his drink and grumbles something that sounds like _plonk._

“But honestly,” Alexander says. “You could be bolder.”

And Burr looks at him with that unexpressive face that has no wrinkles, except for a few around his mouth that’s from smoking and forcing smiles. Alexander knows he shouldn’t push him, because he’s prone to escaping situations where he feels trapped. Alexander doesn’t want Burr to feel trapped, not with him — he doesn’t want to be an obligation. Burr does not owe him anything. If it were just a physical thing between them, he wouldn’t have any misgivings about manipulating and guilting Burr into what he wants from him, but he likes him too much, and he’d rather Burr be genuine.

He’s about to apologize and say he didn’t mean it, but then Burr says, “You could be more subtle.”

They really were made for each other.

 

* * *

 

A storm catches them only a few blocks away from the inn. The rain comes down heavy and fast, drenching their clothes and muffling every sound except raindrops hitting the ground. Alexander blinks water away from his eyes, not that it makes any difference because he can’t see through the gray haze of sheets of rain.

Burr is right next to him — the only thing he _can_ see — but Burr has to shout to be heard over the downpour. Alexander follows his, “Over here!” and he grabs Alexander’s arm and leads him to the nearest alleyway, walking because Alexander can’t run and especially not when the road is wet and slick. Alexander steps in a puddle and curses, but Burr laughs and Alexander laughs too, both laughing like people who have no worries at all.

Rain pours off the roof, but they’re fine under the shelter of the alley as long as they stay close to the wall. Alexander leans against the wall, catching his breath, and he hears Burr’s breathing syncopated to his own. He pulls his hair to one side, wrings the water out of it.

“We’re stuck here until the rain stops,” Alexander says. “Who knows how long it’ll be.”

“Did you have any plans?”

It’s difficult to make Burr out — the sun is hidden behind clouds and there are shadows in the alley — but what Alexander sees is lovely. His clothes are drenched — he could’ve gone swimming and got less wet — shirt ruffles limp like wilted flowers. But he looks amused, like he planned this — getting caught in the rain and trapping them in a dark, empty alley — and suddenly Alexander’s heart beats faster than it did when escaping the rain.

“Do you have anything in mind?” Alexander asks, and he hopes Burr can see him smiling—

—and Burr must, because he backs Alexander to the wall, presses his body against his, hands going to his hips.

“Is this bold enough?” Burr asks, and then kisses him, sincere and so _so_ boldly. Alexander shivers, from the cold of English rain and Burr against him, but inside he’s aflame — Burr’s mouth hot on his, warming him up from the inside out, like steam on windows.

 

* * *

 

Alexander dreams of gunfire, _bam bam bam_ and of being afraid of his life, of feeling death close and ready to take him, claw at his insides and suffocate him. He knows he should be doing something, like firing back and protecting himself, but his only concern is _I must find Burr_.

He finds him. Burr is across a field, standing in the middle of destruction and a hundred splintered bodies. He has that blank face he gets when he’s trying to stay calm, but then his eyes meet Alexander’s, and they’ve found each other.

They always find each other.

Alexander goes to run but he stumbles as pain shoots down his side to his leg. He doesn’t understand, he’s not hurt — but then he remembers, he remembers that he made Burr angry, and Burr made _him_ angry, and they wouldn’t forgive each other because they’re idiots, and he remembers that Burr hurt him. He can’t move. He’s paralyzed, and he doesn’t know if he shouldn’t try once more to go to Burr, or if he should run away from him, but he stumbles again, falling on the ground in the muck and filth and blood. It hurts too bad to get up so he just stays there, helpless. Burr comes towards him, stepping over the dead, careful not to touch anything, and Alexander doesn’t know if he’s going to help him or if he’ll hurt him again, but he prays for either as long as the pain stops—

Alexander jolts awake. It had only been a dream. Burr sleeps a deep, drugged sleep, his front to Alexander’s back, arm thrown over his chest.

He kisses Burr’s arm. _Sorry I doubted you._

There’s that banging again — _bam bam_ — and he thinks he’s still in the dream, but then he realizes that someone is knocking on the door.

He looks over to the window. It’s faintly light out, a couple minutes after sunrise. He doesn’t know who could be at their door this early. Most likely, it’s someone who is only just now going to bed and is mixed up on whose room they’re visiting.

Alexander closes his eyes, wanting just a little bit more sleep, but the person won’t let up, knocking harder on the door. He really doesn’t want to move because he’s warm and Burr is tucked against him perfectly — his mouth pressed against his neck, arm clinging to him, pelvis nestled against his bum — but now he’s too awake and his rest is over anyway, so he sighs and gets out of bed.

He carefully lifts Burr’s arm and gets out his embrace. Burr mumbles in his sleep but doesn’t wake, not noticing that Alexander is not next to him anymore. Alexander watches him for a moment in his precious sleep, before using his cane to stand, grabbing his robe and putting it on, holding it shut without bothering to tie it closed.

“Calm down, I’m coming,” he mutters, grimacing as he limps barefoot to the door — his body doesn’t work as well when he first wakes, needing a few minutes for everything else to wake up. That’s why he likes fooling around in the morning. Something to get his blood flowing. Maybe when he gets rid of whoever this is, he’ll get back into bed and wake Burr with his mouth on his cock…

Alexander unlocks the door, ready to berate whoever disrupted his snuggle time, but it’s Michelle.

“Finally,” she says, pushing past Alexander without being invited inside. Alexander shrugs and shuts the door as she anxiously paces the floor. She looks over to Burr in bed, then to Alexander, and he’s never seen her look so troubled. She’s usually is so sensible, for a whore. But then again, that’s probably the reason for her wisdom.

“What’s wrong?” Alexander asks. “Did someone hurt you?” He doesn’t doubt a man forcing her to do something she doesn’t want.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s…” Her voice cracks. “Robert wasn’t downstairs this morning, which was odd because he’s always the first to rise. He likes to greet everyone, you know? So I went to check on him and— and I found him—”

He takes her hand, has her sit in a chair because she looks a bit woozy. “What?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows what happened — his eyes sting with tears forthcoming, matching the ones already trailing down her cheeks.

Burr stirs from sleep, Alexander hears him mutter some nonsense. He looks over to see Burr rubs his eyes, and then sits up when he realizes that Michelle is in their room.

“What’s the matter?” Burr asks, because he must feel the dread in the room — it’s probably what disturbed his peaceful rest. Alexander wishes that he had been able to sleep and not have any more sorrow, if just for a little while longer…

“Robert died,” Michelle says, and that’s all she can get out before choking on a sob.

Alexander’s intuition was right, but it doesn’t make it any better. He’s upset — he really liked that old, wise man — but Michelle was closer to Robert. They had been living together at the inn for years, and he watched out for her.

Alexander doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing he can say could help her pain, so he just puts his arm around her and rubs her back, like he does for his kids when they come to him upset.

She cries more, burying her face into his middle, her body shaking with sobs.

There’s a hand on his shoulder — it’s Burr, at his side. He gently kisses his cheek, touches their noses together.

“Here,” Burr says, handing Michelle his handkerchief. She blows her nose in an unladylike way, dries her cheeks. Composes herself, stops her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but Alexander shushes her.

“Don’t be,” he says, because there is one thing he knows — that death is unforgiving.

 

* * *

 

The funeral is a few days later. Everyone from the inn pitches in to buy a cheap plot in one of the less dilapidated cemeteries in the city. Graves are scarce in London, some stacked on top of each other, but they all want Robert to have his own space. He deserves it.

It turns out that the large man is an ordained minister, so he says a few blessings, and then others say nice things after him. Alexander talks about how Robert was understanding and had good advice and was incredibly gutsy, while Burr says simply, “He was an honorable man,” when it’s his turn.

It’s a short, awkward service, and Alexander is glad when they leave the cemetery. He kept looking for a familiar grave that’s been there long enough now that the grass has fully grown over, but it — _he_ isn’t there, his baby is buried thousands of miles away.

Burr is too upset to realize that he is, too. Burr doesn’t say it, but Alexander knows that he’s devastated — he knows his restless disquiet, when he’s so troubled that he doesn’t say anything at all.

Alexander lets him mourn. He knows that sometimes you just need…distance.

He tries to cheer him up. On their walk home, he says to Michelle, “I’m sure Robert can see now and knows how hot you are.”

Michelle scoffs. “He touched me enough to know.”

Alexander glances at Burr. He looks ahead, frowning, but then he turns to Alexander and…

…there’s a flicker of a smile.

 

* * *

 

Burr doesn’t say much for the rest of the evening, except to order his drink and to tell Alexander he wants to retire to their room. Even there, alone, Burr is silent — he kisses Alexander’s neck as he takes his clothes off. He puts his finger to Alexander’s lips when he goes to speak, and then kisses him until all of his words leave him.

Burr takes him to bed, kisses him all over, touches him with experience, like he has him mapped out but still looks for uncharted discoveries. He slides his hand down Alexander’s side, rubs his thumb over that ugly jagged scar, digs in hard like he’s trying to wipe away a smear of ink on parchment. Alexander gasps and holds on to Burr’s shoulders, begs _please please please_ — nobody else can make him say _please_ like Burr does — and sighs with relief when Burr reaches down to touch him, and he is exactly what he needs.

 

* * *

 

“Are you okay?” Alexander asks, after. Burr lies on his side facing him, playing with his hair. He still hasn’t said anything. Alexander needs him to say something, to let him know they are okay, because if they aren’t...

“Burr?”

“Yes.” Burr smiles, lazy, kisses Alexander’s forehead. “I’m okay.”

Alexander won’t be fooled with kisses and charm and reassurance. He has to fix this, he has to fix them.

“You’re a goddamn liar. Don’t lie to me, Aaron Burr. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.” Alexander takes Burr’s face between his hands, kisses him softly. “I’m sorry that your friend died, but there’s something more that’s upsetting you, isn’t there?”

“Alex, stop.”

“It’s okay, you can tell me. You don’t have to suffer alone—”

“And what?” Burr’s saccharine warmth is gone in an instant and replaced with something bitter. “How do I tell you that I keep thinking about what would happened if you died?”

Alexander sighs. “Not this, again. I’m not angry with you for that, remember? It’s in the past.”

“No, not when you nearly died because of our duel. I meant…” Burr chokes on a strange sound that he covers with a cough.

“I can’t stop thinking about what I’d do if I lost you,” Burr says, rushed so quickly that it runs together. Slower, he says, “If you died.”

“Oh.”

“I know it’s foolish of me, but when I think of a life without you in it, I don’t…I don’t like it. My world would never be the same—”

Alexander silences him, full stop, with his mouth on his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, mumbling against Burr’s lips. He kisses along Burr’s jaw, nuzzles against his neck. “You can’t get rid of me, remember?”

“You can’t promise that,” Burr says.

“Shh.” Alexander rests his head on Burr’s pillow, and they’re so so close that he can see every worry on his face.

“You know I feel the same way, right?” Alexander says. “That I’d be missing a part of myself without you?”

Burr looks surprised by that. Alexander doesn’t know why — he thought he would have proved it to him by now, after everything.

“We’ll just have to promise impossibilities,” and it’s easy to believe when Burr says it.

 

* * *

 

Burr buys him flowers.

Alexander had stayed behind in their room, reading, while Burr went to the market for a very descriptive _something_ , but he came back with only a handful of flowers wrapped in paper. Alexander smells them as soon as Burr brings them in; they smell familiar, summer blooms, almost as refreshing as when Burr leans down and kisses him.

“Are they for me?” Alexander asks. Nobody has ever brought him flowers. It’s typically not a masculine gift, but he’s always wanted some, he _likes_ flowers, he’s tried to grow his own but he couldn’t. He just didn’t have the touch.

Burr puts them in an empty teapot on the table, acting like it’s no big deal, arranging the sprigs, gently touching petals.

“If you don’t want them, I can get rid of them,” Burr says. “If they make you uncomfortable…”

“No, I love them. It’s just that—” Alexander’s voice breaks, he feels the scrape of it in his throat; grief. He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, he won’t cry, he won’t—

—and he tries to explain why he’s so emotional over a teapot of flowers, he tells him how they had so much space when they moved uptown and he needed to make his life pretty and bright, that he got down on the ground to plant them and worried when they wouldn’t grow and the dirt stayed upturned, but they finally sprouted when he stopped looking for them to, and he went on walks with Eliza and the garden was the only place she would talk to him when they weren’t talking, and he goes there with his kids, and sometimes when he wants to be alone, and when Philip died he…he leaves flowers there every time he visits and he hates that he goes on living when he isn’t, he hates that Philip’s final resting place looks undisturbed, sometimes he wishes that he could dig it up and lie down in there instead of his child because he’s tired, so _so_ tired.

“I know,” Burr says, steady. He sits in the chair next to Alexander, tucks Alexander’s hair behind his ear, looks at him with so much fondness that new tears run down Alexander’s cheeks. “That’s why I bought them for you.”

Alexander nods, because he thinks he’ll weep if he tries to say anything else about the flowers. He’s always been too sentimental. The simple things making him break down, like: a misplaced library book, an old scarf, a gift of flowers.

“I want to go home,” Alexander says, sniffling, and he takes a chance: “And I want you to go with me.”

And Burr — he looks relieved.

“I’ll go anywhere with you,” Burr says. Alexander feels like an idiot when his breath hitches on a sob, but Burr just smiles fondly and kisses his cheek where new tears fall, and tells him, “as long you’ll have me.”

He doesn’t know who moved first, but he’s kissing Burr, and he tastes like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!  
> \- "saucepot" is from "Pamela, or Virture Rewarded" which bluecarrot told me about and said it would definitely be a hamburr term of affection. It totally is.  
> \- Burr does not have a foot fetish  
> \- "Molly houses" were a thing, [read all about them](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/regency-gay-bar-molly-houses).  
> \- there's an AU where hamburr stay in London and hang out in molly houses and take a lot of opium, and then Bentham visits them too...
> 
> They're going home, finally! And this fic is over 200,000 words and it's about...half done of what I have planned? How long will this go on? Who know. Stay tuned. Talk to me @ acanofpeaches on Tumblr. Thanks for being cool and sticking with me for this long.


	22. Aaron XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sea feels like a purgatory between their carefree London life, and the one they have waiting back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is again, now with hamburr at sea! Ahoy.
> 
> A content warning for this chapter: they discuss their childhoods, which includes some talk about child abuse (on Burr's side), and angst and death (for both of them).

Aaron doesn’t do goodbyes. If it were up to him, he would leave London in the middle of the night without telling anyone — just as he came — but he knows Hamilton would never go for that, so he doesn’t even suggest it.

He will miss the freedom that London gives him (he doesn’t miss the irony with this, finding freedom in the country he fought a war to break away from). In London, he goes unrecognized, and he was granted the freedom to find a peace with Hamilton, and with himself.

But it’s time to move on. Nothing lasts forever.

The news of their departure travels through the inn quickly, and everyone is upset to see them to leave. Not many people leave The Wayward on their own, staying until they’re so miserable they’re no longer accepted in the group of miserable people, or they’re finally free of the place by death.

Aaron can’t help but wonder if they’re doing the right thing. Maybe they should take another week to examine their options and think of consequences—

But he can’t hold back with Hamilton again. If he does, he thinks he’ll lose him for good.

So, leaving has to be the right choice.

Michelle says she’ll miss her most loyal customer, and as a show of gratitude for his business and friendship, she gives him a lay, free of charge. Honestly, he thinks that she’s going to miss fucking him. He’s kinder to whores than most men are, and he’s _very_ good at sex and has a nice cock.

Hamilton must’ve been listening in outside the room, because he comes in when they’re finished. Well, when Aaron is finished — Aaron looks up from between Michelle’s thighs to see Hamilton’s eyes go wide before stumbling over himself in his rush to close the door behind him.

Burr ends up having to go fetch him from the hallway when they’ve truly finished. Hamilton is mildly complaining and won’t even look at them, but Michelle gives him a firm swat on his ass.

“Excuse me!” Hamilton shouts, his face as red as his other cheeks must be when nicely slapped, but Michelle just laughs at him.

“Take care of your man,” she says, and then looks over at Aaron. “You, too.”

She leaves them with that advice. Aaron doesn’t know why she had to ruin a good moment. He keeps thinking of how _right_ it felt for Alexander to be called _his_ and to have the same belonging to Alexander, and how Alexander blushed pretty and damn him, damn that idiot for surprising him when he said he’d never allow himself to be this taken with someone ever again.

“Burr,” Hamilton says, his name rolling off his tongue like butter. Infuriating man. He closes the distance between them, tugs his robe open and slips his arms around him. “ _My_ man.”

“Shut up,” he says, but Hamilton’s cheeks are still tinted that pretty pink and he’s smiling. God, Aaron loves it when Hamilton smiles at him…

Aaron feels that smile against his when he kisses him.

 _His_ man.

 

* * *

 

Bentham doesn’t take it well. He laments for over an hour, going on and on about how nice it is that they’re like-spirited, have similar interests, and that Aaron and Hamilton are both so handsome.

“I suppose there isn’t anything I could do that would convince you to stay?” Bentham asks, and when he says it like that — pleading — Aaron finds another reason why he could stay.

But that decision wouldn’t include Hamilton, so that isn’t an option.

“No,” Hamilton says, answering for both of them. He sounds certain of himself, which is mildly infuriating, but he also sounds genuinely sorry. “There is no reason for us to remain here any longer. We came all this way to solve our problems. It’s time for us to go back to our normal lives.”

Hamilton glances to Aaron, and he’s got that stupid hopeful expression that makes him look like he’s nineteen years old, the expression that Aaron hates because it makes him do crazy things like invite a chatty stranger for drinks. Hamilton’s eyes are wide and brown and searching Aaron’s, as though he’s trying to find some confirmation that Aaron shares his feelings. Aaron knows that Hamilton wants him to say something, and the longer that he doesn’t, the more worried Hamilton looks, and _that_ makes Aaron feel sick with worry.

So, he says, “Alexander is right.”

Hamilton doesn’t have to look so _smug_ about it. He’s a terrible know-it-all — it’s one of his least attractive qualities. When he’d told Hamilton this before, Hamilton just gave him another one of those smug grins and said, “So, you admit that it is a bit attractive, huh?”

Bentham sighs. “Of course Alexander is right, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says, distraught. Aaron almost feels sorry for him, but then he looks up to them and his eyes have a devilish twinkle, like they do when he’s thinking of something naughty. “However, I am thrilled that you two are _enjoying_ each other. It is for the best that you leave this country, because I probably would be too much of a distraction.”

“In your dreams,” Aaron says, glib, because he can’t take Bentham _too_ seriously, but then the man lets out a low moan and Aaron takes that very, very seriously.

“Mmm, exactly,” Bentham says. “And what lovely dreams they are.”

He rises from his seat and walks over to where Aaron and Hamilton are, and he has such a power that Aaron finds himself rising too. Hamilton grabs Aaron’s arm for support to stand, and he can hear Hamilton’s quickened breathing — he must feel it, too — and he wants to turn to look at him but Bentham is standing in front of them, demanding his attention.

“I’d be remiss for you boys to go without me expressing myself.” Bentham bows his head and holds out his hand. Hamilton lets out a soft laugh that’s too cute for his own good and Aaron thinks of when he’s heard it before — in lazy make-out sessions and when Aaron found his ticklish spot behind his knee, or every time Aaron grumbles when Hamilton wakes him up too early — and he decides he doesn’t like anyone else making Hamilton make that sound.

And he definitely doesn’t like it when Bentham takes Hamilton’s hand and presses his lips to his knuckles.

“Jeremy,” Hamilton breathes, and Aaron hates that Hamilton is blushing as much as when Aaron flirts with him.

Aaron makes it a goal to be sweet to him more often.

Bentham kisses Hamilton’s knuckles again but then looks up and says, “I have more appreciation to show.” Aaron immediately knows what Bentham is going to do, and Hamilton — his dear, sometimes dumb Hamilton — catches on a moment later. Hamilton lets out a soft, _oh,_ and Bentham asks, “May I?” and Hamilton is still saying, _yes,_ when Bentham kisses him on the mouth.

Is this what Hamilton feels like when he’s amorous with others? Burning hot with jealousy, but also a desire to drag him away and lock them alone in a room and kiss him and rub against him until he never wants anyone else? It’s damn tempting, and he would, if Hamilton didn’t look so incredibly, maddeningly beautiful when he’s being kissed. Alexander is always attractive, but even more so when he’s bare with desire. Aaron has caught glimpses of them in the mirror when they’ve been together, and he had to turn away because he was too distracted seeing how perfect they were — Hamilton bit him on the neck, accusing him of watching his reflection more than focusing on who was under him.

But he can watch him now. Hamilton’s eyes flutter shut, his dark eyelashes dusting his cheeks, and his body relaxes, leaning against Bentham as he kisses him back. He puts his hands against Bentham’s chest and he has to stand on his tiptoes, something that must be new for Hamilton since all the other people he regularly kisses are shorter than him — Eliza, and Aaron too, which Hamilton likes to remind him of constantly ( _only by an inch or so,_ Aaron had told him once, and Hamilton replied, _but an inch makes all the difference_ , _you should know,_ and he winked at him, that terrible, awful man). It lasts longer than it should, but nobody stops it — Bentham’s hands slide down Hamilton’s back and rest on his ass. Hamilton makes a surprised noise in his throat which makes Bentham laugh, and Aaron can see his tongue pass into Hamilton’s mouth, and Aaron has only a moment to be crazy with envy before Bentham separates himself from Hamilton and goes to him.

 _Oh_ , it’s his turn, and Bentham’s mouth is still wet from Hamilton’s when he kisses him. Aaron shouldn’t like this, but he does, and he allows himself this. He submits, says _yes_ when Bentham puts a hand to his cheek, questioning, and Bentham takes advantage of this singular instance that he must’ve been dying to do since they met. Bentham pulls him in, kisses him open-mouthed until Aaron returns it, and he thinks he can distinguish _Alex_ from Bentham’s own exquisite taste. Bentham mumbles something that he doesn’t really hear because he’s too stupefied and ashamed that he likes this, and when he opens his eyes — when did he close them? — and he looks past Bentham to see Hamilton looking at him a little dazed, wide-eyed and mouth agape and messy haired from where Bentham ran his fingers through it, looking like he can’t decide if he should feel betrayed or turned on.

“My boy,” Bentham says. Aaron is going to miss hearing him say that, that nickname that makes him feel so special. Bentham kisses him again, but this time gently on his cheek. It feels like _goodbye_ even though he says, “Until next time.”

“You know we won’t see each other again.” Aaron doesn’t need placating lies, he isn’t _upset_ , he doesn’t _care_ , he _never_ does—

—but then he looks over to Hamilton and…yes, he does care, and quite often.

Damn them both.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bentham says. “I expect correspondence. In fact, I’ll pay for your return trip as long as you promise to keep in touch. _Both_ of you.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Of course I don’t,” Bentham says, smiling. “It isn’t a trade-off — I want to do something nice. I _know_ you wouldn’t be able to resist me, even if only through letters. But worry not, I can be just as suggestive with written words…”

Aaron is going to miss the man, and his mind that is filthy as it is genius.

 

* * *

 

The have more than they came with — they have to buy another suitcase to fit the things Aaron has accumulated during his stay in London and all of Hamilton’s new clothes and books and knickknacks for his family — but their emotional baggage is considerably lighter.

“It’ll be fine,” Hamilton says, but it sounds like he’s reassuring himself. It will be fine. They’re just leaving their safe, comfortable home-away-from-home they’ve made for themselves where all they had to do was be with each other.

But that isn’t what they need anymore. Aaron knows it, and Hamilton knows it.

So they wake up early on a rare sunny morning, gather their belongings, settle the balance of their bill and have breakfast on the house. They say their goodbyes, and then they leave The Wayward, onward to their path.

Aaron doesn’t get a chance to be sentimental about it because Hamilton won’t shut up, talking and changing topics and not making much sense. He talks about everything _except_ that they’re leaving. He doesn’t stop for one moment during the ride. It doesn’t make Aaron feel any better and he’s about to threaten to leave him in London while he sails back home, but then the dock comes into sight and Hamilton goes quiet.

 _He’s nervous,_ Aaron realizes. He had been so wrapped up in his own anxiety that he hadn’t noticed that jittery disquietude that’s so misplaced on Hamilton. He can’t see Hamilton’s face because he’s staring out the window, but Aaron knows he’s on edge by the way his shoulders are tense and he’s gripping the handle of his cane like he’s trying to choke it.

“Hey.” Aaron touches Hamilton’s knee, talks low enough so the driver won’t overhear. “Are you alright?”

Hamilton turns to him and lip is trembling and his eyes are glassy and he looks so _so_ helpless. Aaron is mad at him — he’s the one who wanted to leave, they had a good thing here, but Hamilton is a greedy, horrible man who is never satisfied — but then he can’t be mad with Hamilton when he looks at him like _that,_ and he doesn’t want him to cry because he can’t comfort him like he wishes he could—

“It’ll be fine,” Aaron says, repeating Hamilton’s mantra from the last few days.

“How do you know?” Hamilton asks, softly.

 _Because you told me it would be._ Aaron sure of it as long as Hamilton is.

He glances to the partition to make sure they aren’t being watched, and then takes Hamilton’s hand in his.

“Do you trust me?” Aaron asks.

To his relief, Hamilton nods.

“Then believe me,” he says. “Everything will be fine.”

It has to be.

Reassured, Hamilton smiles at him and he starts talking again, goddamn. Aaron feels a whole lot better, but he wishes he had that much faith in himself.

 

* * *

 

Things progress quickly after that. Their coach stops and they get out — Aaron first, and then he helps Hamilton step down onto the uneven cobblestone street — and then they have their luggage taken aboard their ship. Hamilton is still jumpy and nervous, and he is taking _forever_ to move. He pats his coat and his eyes go wide and says that he thinks he left his glasses back at the inn and they _have_ to go back and get them so they might as well cancel their tickets and try again tomorrow, but Aaron pulls the glasses from his pocket and hands them to Hamilton.

“You always misplace them,” Aaron says. “I’m going to stop keeping track of your things.” It’s incredibly frustrating when Hamilton leaves his belongings laying about, expecting Aaron to help him find them later. Every time Aaron swears he won’t help him again, but he always does. Like this morning when he saw Hamilton’s glasses left on the windowsill, forgotten. He can’t blame Hamilton because the guy can’t help it; he doesn’t have the ability to pay attention to details.

Hamilton glares at him, barely utters a _thanks_ before turning on his heel to go further onto the dock in a huff.

Aaron smiles, and then fights it away, wondering when he began to find Hamilton’s headstrong will so endearing.

He catches up to Hamilton, who is currently arguing with the attendant to triple check that their luggage is on the correct vessel. He’s nervous again, keyed up and talking fast with lots of hand motions, but Aaron puts a steady hand on his shoulder and guides him away.

“Please calm down,” Aaron whispers. “You were making a scene.”

“What if I _wanted_ to make a scene?”

Hamilton is confrontational — eyes set dark and hard, hands on his hips, scowling. He’s being extremely difficult and Aaron has had _enough_ of him and it’s not even past eight in the morning, but he knows that Hamilton is doing it to hide something else, guarding something more tender and raw. When he looks past the righteousness, he sees that Hamilton is so vulnerable. Lost.

If they weren’t surrounded by people, Aaron would kiss him.

But he takes Hamilton’s hand in his and says, “Let’s go home.”

And the indignation fades away from Hamilton, leaving only that delicate vulnerability.

Hamilton lets Aaron direct him in the direction of their ship. He’s uncharacteristically quiet and Aaron realizes he misses Hamilton’s endless chatter. It’s comforting for his own nerves. But Hamilton merely hands his ticket over, waits for Aaron to do the same, and stands at the edge of the wooden platform that connects the shore to the ship.

“Go on.” Aaron gives Hamilton a nudge. “Or have you decided you want to be an Englishman, after all?”

Hamilton looks over his shoulder at Aaron and…he’s frightened.

It’s just then that Aaron remembers that Hamilton is fearful of traveling by ship. Hamilton hasn’t outright admitted it — he would never admit he was afraid of anything — but he complained about how much he hated it and that Aaron should feel bad for making him endure such a hardship because Aaron _made_ him sail across the ocean. It’s all fuss, but Aaron knows that it’s just another one of Hamilton’s concealments.

“It’s fine. I’m with you.” Aaron gives him another gentle push on his back. “If you want to go home, you must get on this ship.”

Hamilton nods, takes a deep breath, and steps forward.

He goes slow, holding tightly onto the handrail with one hand and using his cane with the other. Aaron doesn’t miss his white-knuckle grip on both, or how he looks apprehensively over the side at the water down below. The water is murky and deep and mysterious and Aaron isn’t entirely comfortable with it either, because now Hamilton’s misgivings have him thinking about it, but he walks behind Hamilton and encourages him as they board. They have to leave this place.

Once on board, they locate their room. They go down tight corridors, making room for sailors who pass in a hurry. Hamilton sighs when he sees the steep stairwell they must take to get to where their room is. It’s only ten stairs or so, but Aaron knows it’s like a mountain for Hamilton. Aaron feels suspiciously guilty about that, and he feels worse when Hamilton winces and curses when he takes the first step down into the depths of the ship. Right foot, then left, and then leans against the wall.

Aaron doesn’t ask _are you alright?_ because of course Hamilton isn’t — he’s in pain, and he doesn’t like pity, especially from Aaron.

So, Aaron waits for Hamilton to take the next step, and then the next. He follows Hamilton down, staying close enough to grab him if he starts to fall — although, he isn’t sure how much good he’d be because most likely he’d up falling with him — but finally, they reach the bottom, and they are both all right.

Hamilton still doesn’t say much, and his nervous energy renders Aaron quiet, too. He only says, “This is it,” when they reach their cabin — number four — at the end of the hall. He unlocks it with the key he was given when he came onboard, and lets Hamilton go inside first. Hamilton gives him a look, but does a small curtsey as Aaron holds the door open for him.

Dumbass.

Their cabin is one of the larger ones. Bless Bentham for shelling out the money for them so they could journey in comfort. However, despite it being one of the better ones, it’s still terribly cramped — a bunk bed along one wall, a small table with an oil lantern, a basin, a hook on the wall to hang their coats. Their bags are on the floor, as promised they would be. There are no windows, which makes the room seem even smaller, and darker.

But it doesn’t smell too bad, and it doesn’t look like it’s infested with fleas, so, it could be worse.

There’s a muffled horn blowing outside to signal departure. Hamilton turns to Aaron, and that fear is still there. It’s surreal to see on him. His expression is odd, like he doesn’t know what to do because fear is unfamiliar to him. Aaron didn’t see Hamilton afraid on that July day years back, not even when he was bleeding out onto the dirt.

“I’m not going back up those stairs now,” Hamilton says. He sits on the bottom bunk, looks up at Aaron. “You can go, if you want.”

Hamilton doesn’t want him to go. He’s just saying that — he whines like a newborn puppy when he’s left alone — but Aaron doesn’t really care about going upstairs to watch England fade in the distance, and he’d much rather be with Hamilton, no matter how despondent he’s being.

“I think I’ll stay.” Aaron sits next to Hamilton, bumps his shoulder with his. “If that’s acceptable to you.”

“Yes.” Hamilton smiles, bright and proud and pleased that Aaron had chose him. Like Aaron is something special and good and he’s lucky to have him. Aaron thinks Hamilton is crazy, but it makes him feel valued nonetheless and he can’t throw away the feeling of being cared for because it’s been so, so long since someone has.

“Burr,” Hamilton begins, speaking, and that’s another relief because Aaron had thought he was going to be with a silent Hamilton the entire way and that is much worse than a loud Hamilton, but then the ship lurches and the entire thing shudders to a start.

Hamilton grabs Aaron’s hand in surprise. He’s given up trying to hide that he’s worried. He’s wide-eyed panicked and breathing hard and he’s gone pale. His palm is sweaty against Aaron’s. Aaron doesn’t blame him for being afraid — the ship makes an awful creaking sound — but he has to pretend it doesn’t bother him so he won’t frighten Hamilton more than he already is. He brings Hamilton’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles while meeting Hamilton’s gaze with his own. Hamilton had been on the verge of crying, but this affectionate moment sets him off, one tear escaping and running down his cheek.

“You’re safe.” Aaron kisses his hand again, then his cheek where it’s wet. “You trust me, remember?”

“But my family…,” Hamilton begins.

“We’re going home, Alex,” Aaron says. “You’ll see them soon.”

“But what if…what if… What if something happened while I was gone? What if they’re hurt?”

“They aren’t.”

“Or what if they hate me?” Hamilton asks. “It’s been months since I’ve seen them and we have six weeks of traveling — that is, if we even make it back at all—”

“ _Alex_.”

“And the kids will have grown so much, and Eliza, my dear, dear Betsey, my love, how could I have left her…?”

 _For you_ , he does not say, but Aaron hears it, anyway.

Aaron knows that Hamilton will always like Eliza more than him. He’s okay with that — being second best to Eliza Schuyler is still winning. But…

He kisses Hamilton, slow and gentle — he feels Hamilton’s lips tremble against his, and when Aaron opens his eyes, he sees that Hamilton’s eyelashes are wet.

Hamilton breaks away from him, and anxiety still has a suffocating hold on him, him wondering _what if what if what if._

“What if it isn’t the same? With us?” Hamilton whispers, voicing the fear that has been eroding away at Aaron’s hope since they’ve both been itching to go home.

Aaron smiles, brushes hair away from Hamilton’s sweaty forehead. “We’re going to be fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yes,” Aaron says. “And if not, we can push each other off the side of the ship.”

Hamilton laughs — one of Aaron’s favorite sounds. Hamilton is reassured so easily when Aaron says things will be okay, and Aaron thinks that Hamilton is an idiot for trusting him because he’s made mistake after mistake, but he can’t refuse that trust when Hamilton embraces him like he’s his anchor.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the open sea for less than an hour before Hamilton gets sick. Along with his self-affirmed rational fear of the ocean, he has extreme seasickness — probably made worse with his anxiety — and is very, very sad. Aaron knows that Hamilton is embarrassed to be seen this way, but too miserable to care.

Hamilton tries to distract himself, pacing the small room (smaller than their room back at The Wayward) until he stumbles when the ship catches a wave and Aaron has to catch him so he won’t fall to the hard, wooden floor. Hamilton falls against his body with an _oof_ , face pressed against Aaron’s shoulder.

“You’ve got to get your sea legs,” Aaron says, hoping to make Hamilton laugh, but he just groans.

Poor guy.

Aaron helps him over to the bed, sits him down on the bottom bunk, saying, “Careful,” and putting his hand on his head so he won’t slam it on the iron bar of the top bed. Hamilton lays on top of the covers, moaning in queasiness and squeezes his eyes shut as he takes deep breaths. Aaron takes off Hamilton’s shoes and puts them under the bed, then removes his cravat and loosens his collar.

“Thank you for being nice to me.”

Hamilton’s eyes are still shut, but he’s reaching out for him. Aaron holds his hand and sits next to him.

“Did you expect me to be cruel?” Aaron smiles, fond, gently touches Hamilton’s face. Hamilton makes a pleasant noise, and turns his face into his palm.

“Talk less,” Hamilton mumbles. His forehead scrunches up in another wave of nausea as the ship rocks with a wave on the water, but he relaxes when Aaron kisses him.

Hamilton rests for a while, although fitfully, but he sits bolt upright and says he feels worse. He looks a bit green around the gills so Aaron goes to find him a pail. Thankfully, there are some conveniently placed in the hall for seasick passengers, and he brings one back to Hamilton.

Hamilton snatches it from him, apologizes, and then loses his breakfast from that morning into it.

“My poor Alex,” Aaron says, and Hamilton makes a pathetic noise hunched over the rusty pail. He really does feel bad for Hamilton. He’s luckily never had seasickness himself, but he would take Hamilton’s pains away in an instant if he could.

That catches him by surprise. Huh. Alexander really does have a hold on him.

Aaron ties Hamilton’s hair up with a ribbon, making sure to get all the stubborn wispy pieces that fall in his face. It’s sloppy and lopsided, but it’s good enough and out of his way.

“Don’t leave me,” Hamilton says, pitiful.

“I’m not.” Aaron kisses his temple even though Hamilton is kind of gross at the moment. He supposes that means his affection for Hamilton is genuine.

“Good.” Hamilton looks like he wants to say more, but is sick again.

It’s going to be a long way to America.

 

* * *

 

Aaron does have to leave Hamilton alone for a little while, eventually, but only after Hamilton is feeling a little better and can lie down. Aaron cleans him up, getting rid of the pail — and gets a clean one, just in case — and wets a cloth in the basin and wipes Hamilton’s face. Hamilton gets fussy and says he can do it, but he doesn’t make an effort to, so Aaron does it for him. He doesn’t mind.

“I’ll be back,” Aaron says.

“I’m not worried,” Hamilton replies. “We are in the middle of the Atlantic. There’s nowhere for you to run to.”

“I can swim.”

Hamilton is smiling when he leaves.

He doesn’t spend much time away. He goes on the deck and has a smoke as he looks at the vast sea, in the direction of where their home is, out there, somewhere. He can’t see it, but he trusts that it’s there.

Because he isn’t a cruel partner, he has a small meal in the dining area. It would be rude to eat in front of a very nauseated Hamilton. He shares a table with a sailor with a thick Georgia accent who asks too many questions ( _what’s your name? where are you from? why were you in London? who are you with?_ _what’s he like?_ ) that Aaron gives one-word answers to. He takes some food back with him, bread and cheese and some tea in a tin mug because he _does_ think of Hamilton even though he says he doesn’t.

Hamilton is asleep, under the blanket. Since Aaron was gone, he must have undressed because his clothes are on the floor. Aaron knows Hamilton is unwell because he always puts them away — except when he’s taking them off to get naked with Aaron — because he’s so proud of his clothes. Aaron sets the food on the table and picks Hamilton’s clothing up for him, lays his coat and waistcoat and breeches and stockings on top of his suitcase as delicate as Hamilton would do.

He hates to, but he wakes Hamilton up. He sits on the bed and touches his arm. “Alex.” It takes a few tries for Hamilton to stir, but he blearily blinks and looks up at Aaron.

“Hey.” Hamilton yawns. “So you didn’t jump overboard to get away from me?”

“There is still a long way to go,” Aaron says. “Maybe I’ll feel differently after I’ve been trapped on here with you for a few weeks.”

Hamilton gives him a look that Aaron likes to think is reserved only for him — irritated but befuddled with adoration. Only Aaron can make Hamilton that vexed, and he’s the only one Hamilton will forgive over and over.

Aaron hopes it stays that way — that Hamilton will continue to forgive him, because God knows he will always make mistakes.

Hamilton keeps giving him that look, and now Aaron knows he’s giving _him_ a particular, only-for-Hamilton look.

Goddamn him.

Aaron turns and gestures to the table, because he can’t keep looking at Hamilton like that or he might say something he isn’t ready for yet. “I brought you some food—”

“Ugh.”

“—and tea. You should drink that, at least.”

Hamilton grumbles, but he agrees. He sits up, groans, but he doesn’t look sickly pale like earlier, so there’s that. Aaron hands him the tea. It’s lukewarm and probably not sweetened enough for his liking, but Hamilton sips it, and then takes big gulping drinks.

“Not so fast,” Aaron says, touching Hamilton’s elbow, but Hamilton finishes it anyway, tilting the cup up to get every drop, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Thirsty.” Hamilton hands the cup to Aaron, and then flops on back onto the bed.

“Is there anything else you want?” Aaron asks.

“Sleep with me?” Hamilton says, scoffing when Aaron raises his brows at him. “I didn’t mean _that_. I don’t feel well and I would, um, rather give you a full performance.”

“Sure,” Aaron says, careful to hide the mirth in his voice. “You’re so thoughtful.”

“That’s right.”

Hamilton seems to be in better spirits, but Aaron can tell that he still feels lousy. He looks small and frail under the threadbare blanket, and the dark circles under his eyes are worse as he’s ever seen them.

“Please?” Hamilton asks. “Please sleep next to me?”

Like Aaron would say no? The bed is small, smaller than they shared in London, but Hamilton clings to him like a tick, so extra space doesn’t make much of a difference. He doesn’t mind it. He would sleep with Hamilton in the dirt, as long as he is with him. When he saw the bunk bed, he had wondered how they would continue their intimacy, and he hated the idea that they wouldn’t share a bed anymore. It would have been a good excuse for them to stop, but neither wants to. Hamilton is just braver than him to say so.

“If that will make you feel better,” Aaron says, as if he’s doing Hamilton a favor. He locks the door, and then starts to take off his clothes. Slowly, just to aggravate Hamilton. He changes into his nightshirt and Hamilton scoots to make space between him and the wall.

“On this side,” he says, patting the empty space. “In case I have to get up and be sick again.”

“Wow. So charming.” But Aaron climbs over Hamilton and lies down in the narrow space allotted for him, nestled between the cold wall and Hamilton’s warmth.

Hamilton turns over and snuggles into him. “You smell like salt,” he mutters. He sniffs Aaron’s skin.

Aaron won’t say what Hamilton smells like.

“I was up on the observation area,” he says. “It was…”

Hamilton is already snoring.

Aaron smiles and kisses Hamilton’s forehead. He had forgot to turn off the lantern, but that’s fine. Hamilton is sleeping and he feels sleep closing in on him, too. Let the oil burn out.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton’s sickness lingers for days and days. Aaron doesn’t leave the room much — he’s too busy worrying over Hamilton and providing him company because Hamilton feels bad enough already without being lonesome, too. Hamilton gets terrible nausea and spends the day curled up in bed, trying not to vomit. He refuses to eat full meals, and quickly drops enough weight for Aaron notice a difference. He isn’t taking care of himself.

Aaron remembers when Hamilton showed up in London, thinner and pale. It makes sense, now, and he’s a fool because it takes him a week to realize that Hamilton must have really _really_ wanted to see him if he would brave the sea alone, not knowing if Aaron yearned for him in the way he did.

“It was worth it to finally tell you how I felt,” Hamilton says. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders like an oversized cape. He’s shivering, even though it’s warm in the cabin — Aaron is down to his breeches and shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“However, you thought it best to wait until I was on another continent.”

“I had to let you know I was _serious._ ” Hamilton grins. “It was also worth it to suck your dick.”

 

* * *

 

Hamilton tries not to be a bother. He doesn’t wake Aaron up when he’s ill, even though his retching does. “Sorry,” Hamilton mumbles, but Aaron rubs his back and kisses his neck. He used to do the same thing for Theodosia when she would wake up in the middle of the night from her sickness.

One day, Aaron drags Hamilton upstairs. He figures the fresh air and sun will do him good. Hamilton complains — as always — but it does seem to help. It’s a beautiful day with no rain in sight, and puffy white clouds spread across the sky like whipped cream on a pie. They sit side by side on a bench facing the sea and the clouds. Hamilton is sullen that Aaron forced him outside and he’s still sad about everything else is troubling him, but he starts a game of pointing to clouds and quizzing Aaron on what they resemble.

“I don’t know. A potato?” It looks like a blob to him.

“No,” Hamilton says, exasperated. “It’s _clearly_ a unicorn.”

Aaron squints at the cloud, trying to see what Hamilton sees.

“Unicorns aren’t real.”

“Says you,” Hamilton replies, and starts another round of cloud gazing before Aaron can argue. “How about that one?” he asks, pointing to the east.

Aaron guesses wrong, again, even though the whole thing is very subjective. But it seems to put Hamilton in better spirits, so he plays along. He’s purposely terrible at it, since it gives Hamilton such glee to tell him how a cloud looks exactly like a rabbit, and that one is a boot ( _duh Burr, don’t you see it_ ), and that cloud over there is a cut of steak.

“Please tell me you know what that one is.”

Aaron examines the cloud. Long, sticking out of the rest, and curved at the end.

“A quill in an inkpot?”

Hamilton looks truly disappointed in him.

“Don’t you know a cock when you see one?” Hamilton asks, and now that he mentions it, Aaron sees it — what he had thought as an inkpot is balls, and there are little white puffs of smaller clouds near the tip of the cock-shape that makes it look like there is jizz shooting from it.

“I guess this is what they meant when they said you were the most brilliant man of our age,” Aaron says.

“Well,” Hamilton says, blushes, and doesn’t say anything else.

Hamilton stares out into nothingness, but Aaron only looks at him. The breeze tousles his hair and his skin is getting back its golden glow, and even his unshaven jaw looks attractive.

Beautiful idiot.

“Is it still worth it?” Aaron asks. “To leave home for me?”

Hamilton looks at him puzzled. “Of course.”

Of course.

 

* * *

 

Smoother sea and time abates Hamilton’s nausea. He claims he still doesn’t feel well; Aaron thinks he might be exploiting the situation, but he doesn’t mind spending his hours with him, especially since Hamilton’s ever-present sadness remains. Hamilton demands to be held, saying it steadies him, but it’s not like Aaron wouldn’t do it if Hamilton just wanted to be close to him.

Having a routine helps. They sleep together — with Aaron pressed against the wall — and mess up the bedding on the top bunk so it appears that they were sleeping separately, if anyone happened to see in their room. Every morning, Hamilton lies in bed and watches Aaron shave. Hamilton has been lax about his grooming, saying, “it doesn’t matter,” and that he’s, “trying a new look,” and, “at least I can grow proper facial hair,” which, _fine_ , it’s true, Aaron’s beard always comes in patchy and his mustache ridiculous — but Hamilton doesn’t have to be a scruffy ragamuffin.

Although, his beard does feel nice between his thighs…

Ahem.

Hamilton is annoyingly amiable and makes friends. As always. He talks (too much) to that sailor who won’t leave them alone. _Sam_ , Hamilton says, like Aaron should make it a point to remember his name. Sam, a nice Georgia-boy name. Aaron doesn’t care much for Sam. Why should he? Hamilton gives him too much attention — just because Hamilton wants someone (else) to talk to and Sam is doe-eyed and listens to Hamilton. It’s certainly not because Sam is young and muscular and has sandy blond hair that’s been dyed by saltwater and sun. No.

But, Aaron decides he likes the sailor more when he sneaks them a bottle of whiskey.

“If anyone asks, you brought it on board with you,” Sam says. He puts it in Hamilton’s hand and winks.

Hamilton winks back. Goddamn.

“See what happens when you’re nice to people?” Hamilton asks.

Aaron scoffs. “You don’t have to be _that_ nice.”

“Golly, I think someone’s jealous.”

“Alexander…”

So what if he is?

 

* * *

 

Some days, Hamilton is sadder than usual. What triggered it this time was when he had read old letters from his family in the morning — they either make him immensely happy, or depressed. This time, it’s sadness, the kind that is so palpable that Aaron feels it, too.

It doesn’t help to remind Hamilton that they’ll be home soon. It’s not soon _enough_ for him, and he _left_ them, he’s a terrible husband and a worse father, too selfish — and then he apologizes to Aaron because he’s awful to him too, _damn_ , why does anyone like him?

Aaron just shushes him and gives him a generous serving of whiskey.

It’s midday and they’re pleasantly drunk, curled up in the rickety bed together. Hamilton asks, _are you angry with me?_ and Aaron tells him, _no,_ but he doesn’t look like he believes it, even when Aaron gives him a sloppy kiss.

Aaron tells dirty jokes to make Hamilton laugh. “What did the blind whore say after the hand job?” he asks, and when Hamilton shrugs he gives the answer, “Is it raining in here?”

Hamilton snickers. “Hmm. What’s the best part about gardening?”

Aaron shrugs.

“Getting dirty on your hands and knees.”

Aaron feels himself flush. “Do you want to hear a joke about my cock?”

“Sure.”

“Never mind, it’s too long.”

Hamilton laughs and kisses him, calls him a _jerk,_ affectionately.

He’s feeling much, _much_ better.

Good enough to put his hands down below and rub them both — a cock in each hand. Aaron hardens quickly and pushes into Hamilton’s touch, his cock sliding against his palm. Hamilton kisses him sloppy, slacking off on rubbing Aaron as he concentrates on stroking himself more to catch up.

“Let me.” Aaron kisses Hamilton’s objections away, and then shimmies down Hamilton’s body. Hamilton lies still, except for spreading his legs so Aaron can kneel between them.

Hamilton is gorgeous like this. Wanton, softly moaning and pushing his hips up, his cock hard and making his shirt tent. Aaron lifts the shirt out the way, dips his head down to lick at the base of Hamilton’s cock where he likes it.

He doesn’t hesitate anymore when Hamilton’s cock is in front of him. He licks him without question, takes him in his mouth and closes his eyes and tries to take it deeper without gagging. Hamilton makes lovely sounds when Aaron’s mouth is on his cock, and begs for more. He always wants more, that greedy greedy man…

Aaron knows the moment before Hamilton comes — he whines and his cock tastes different. He keeps sucking him until he spills his mouth. Aaron swallows it all, and he doesn’t even mind the taste anymore. He lets Hamilton’s cock out of his mouth, kisses Hamilton’s stomach enough that he knows it’ll leave a pretty bruise.

Hamilton makes a nice sound — a short _ah_ from his throat — then with more energy than he normally presents himself with, pushes Aaron back onto the mattress and goes down, takes Aaron into his mouth.

“My turn,” Hamilton says, and bobs his head down Aaron’s shaft, closing his eyes as he takes as much as he can. Aaron feels his cock brush against the back of his throat. Hamilton pulls off, grinning and pleased with himself.

“It isn’t too long for me,” Hamilton says, his voice hoarse.

“Idiot,” Aaron says, laughing, his hand going to the back of Hamilton’s head as he puts his mouth back on him.

 

* * *

 

After they use their mouths on each other, Hamilton falls asleep. He always gets lazy after his cock gets some attention. But Aaron can’t sleep because Hamilton is sprawled out on the bed, plus he could really go for a smoke. He would take a big dose of laudanum, but he’s running out of it, and he promised he’d try to quit it. The cravings for it have almost stopped.

He makes sure that Hamilton is resting peacefully. Yes — he’s drooling on the pillow and laying on his stomach with the blanket tangled around his legs, showing off his bare ass.

Aaron washes off with a damp cloth to rid himself of sex-scent, and then dresses into what he was wearing earlier in the day, simple black breeches and a black jacket. He writes Hamilton a note because he doesn’t want him to wake alone without an explanation for his absence.

 

 

> _My Alex,_
> 
> _I stepped out for a walk. You were resting so peacefully, I did not want to wake you with my restlessness. I’ll be back before you miss me._
> 
> _Burr._

 

He leaves it on the table where Hamilton would see it. Would Hamilton miss him?

Possibly. Hopefully.

Aaron can’t help himself — he kisses Hamilton’s cheek. Hamilton smiles in his sleep and — oh, isn’t that the sweetest thing? You’d never guess the man could have more ire than the heat of the sun. Aaron almost wakes him to tell him this but he’d be telling him something he already knows.

He misses Hamilton. It isn’t a surprise. He’s alone on the deck and all he can think about is that he wishes he could show Hamilton the one-legged seagull that’s squawking at everyone for food, or ask Hamilton what he thinks the clouds look like, or just to be there with him.

Is this what it’s always going to be like?

Hamilton is still asleep when Aaron returns to their cabin. Aaron had missed him too much — he had realized he isn’t any good at imagining clouds into unicorns or an octopus or an ejaculating penis, and…and he just _missed_ him, isn’t that enough?

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Hamilton sleep. His Alex. It’s odd to think how this perfectly imperfect man could have been gone because of his stupid mistake, and he would have missed missing him.

He kisses Hamilton on his open, pouty lips. Hamilton makes a nice noise, kisses back, his tongue sliding against Aaron’s as he wakes up.

When Hamilton sees Aaron, he smiles. _Involuntary,_ Aaron realizes.

“What was that for?” Hamilton asks.

“Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

A few weeks pass and Hamilton begins to get bored. Aaron had thought it would happen sooner, but the closer they get to home, Hamilton goes through a bout of what Aaron calls temporary lunacy. He’s seen it on Hamilton before — when they were younger and working together. Focused, but chaos without a center.

Aaron occupies him, talking philosophy and purposely getting into arguments — those take up half a day, at least. To take the edge off, he is sure to keep Hamilton sexually gratified, which is something beneficial for both of them, even though sometimes after sucking him off, Hamilton will go back over to the table and finish what he was writing. Aaron doesn’t take offense, he knows it’s just Hamilton being…like this. It’ll pass. He goes around the ship, begging parchment from other passengers because Hamilton used all of his up, and he needs to write more, more, more. Letters and snippets of stories and plans for the future. Aaron brings him food, nice sandwiches with cured bacon and actual fruit, but he hardly touches it, and instead attacks Aaron with biting kisses and a grip that bruises his arms as he pushes him onto the bed. They rut against each other and Hamilton leaves scratches on his back and Aaron pulls his hair and Hamilton says filthy things that make Aaron shudder and moan because, _I want you to come on my face_ should not be that sexy but it is when Hamilton says it. And Hamilton _knows_ that Aaron likes it, he grins like a predatory animal and begs for more. He asks for Aaron to get on top of him and _use_ him and Aaron isn’t really sure what he’s asking for, but he finally gets Hamilton to shut up and be _still_ when he straddles Hamilton’s hips, leans down and holds his hands over his head and thrusts against him, his cock sliding against Hamilton’s stomach. When he’s about to come he asks, _do you really want me to?_ and Hamilton nearly cries as he says, _yes, please, Burr, come on my fucking face—_ and that sends Aaron over the edge. He comes hard, releasing on Hamilton, letting go of Hamilton’s wrists as he’s overcome with the bliss that is Hamilton’s body against his.

When his head clears, he realizes that Hamilton is lying still under him. His eyes are kind of glazed over and Aaron thinks he hardly notices when he rolls off of him. He’s quiet as Aaron lies next to him and strokes him, using his mouth to kiss Hamilton on his neck, sweet and gentle. His breath hitches, then he sighs as he comes with a whisper, “Burr.”

Hamilton lies in bed after — his recent hyperactivity evaporated — so Aaron gets a rag to clean them up, and then fetches the blanket from where it had been kicked to the floor and covers them both up. He snuggles close to Hamilton, who turns on his side so he can rest his head on Aaron’s shoulder.

“Tired,” Hamilton says. He must be. He hasn’t slept properly in days.

Aaron kisses his forehead. “Then rest, silly.”

Hamilton makes a sound of agreement. “You’re so smart, Aaron Burr.”

“Sometimes,” Aaron replies, but Hamilton has already dozed off. He’s lying on Aaron’s arm and it’ll surely go numb but…Hamilton’s eyelids are purple from fatigue and Aaron isn’t _that_ mean, not when Hamilton looks cute. Even if thoughts of Hamilton give him a funny feeling in his chest.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Hamilton is better. He’s sleeping in, catching up on the rest he neglected the last few days. Aaron manages to free his arm — biting his lip so he won’t curse and wake Hamilton when it tingles with pins and needles — and watches Hamilton sleep.

Hamilton is as handsome as he is pretty. He has features that shouldn’t be pleasant to look at, but on him they’re stunning. Aaron remembers a time when he looked upon Hamilton and wished he could touch him, to know him in a way he didn’t understand. But now, he understands, and he can touch him without shame.

He runs his finger down Hamilton’s nose, over the bump in the middle and the cute point at the end. He traces that pout of his lips and the curve of the cupid’s bow. He counts all of Hamilton’s freckles, to make sure they are still there. They are, thankfully. He kisses each of them in gratitude, the one on his chin and the one tucked in his brow and all three on his cheek.

“What are you doing?”

Aaron is caught, and for a moment is embarrassed, but Hamilton is smiling at him and yes, that’s good.

Aaron continues, kissing the dots on Hamilton’s nose. “I’m inspecting your freckles.” He licks the one on his earlobe. “I think they’re…very interesting.”

“My mother used to call them _sun kisses_ ,” Hamilton says. He makes a humming noise as Aaron kisses the cluster of freckles on his neck. “Have you noticed I have freckles in other places?”

“I have.” On his knees and feet and stomach and the curve of his shoulders and on his ass. “Exquisite.”

Aaron takes Hamilton’s hand — he knows that there are some on his arm, too — but he sees fresh bruises on Hamilton’s delicate wrist. Aaron recalls the night previous, him holding Hamilton’s wrists tightly as Hamilton was rough and obscene and Aaron had met him with as much fiery desire.

He presses his lips to the bruised skin. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then kisses Hamilton’s other wrist that is matching purple and blue.

“Stop that,” Hamilton says, reprimanding. “I wanted it.” He blushes. “I liked it.” He runs his hand up Aaron’s chest. “Didn’t you?”

Aaron feels himself flushing. “Yes,” he says. “I like most things when it involves you.”

“Oh.” That wildness in his eyes from the last few days is gone, replaced by that brightness that Aaron has grown to adore. “I’m sorry that I sometimes get…” He waves his hand as if to indicate…crazy? obnoxious? vexing? “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Aaron says.

He thinks that Hamilton shouldn’t apologize because he likes him just as he is — crazy obnoxious vexing man — but he wouldn’t dare tell Hamilton that because that would be more intimate than anything else.

“Are you okay, though?” Aaron asks.

“Of course,” Hamilton says. “You’re here.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe so,” and Hamilton gets close, whispers against his lips, “but then, so are you.”

That seems about right.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton doesn’t get at odds again, and returns to his normal, sometimes lazy, sometimes irritating self. They take turns reading passages from books aloud, bring each other off, rest. At night, they go above deck and Aaron points at stars and names them, because he had a fascination with them when he was a child — they were something silent and sure, always the same when he looked in the sky.

Again, Aaron finds himself mourning when this time — alone — with Hamilton is over. No matter what they promise each other, it can’t be the same.

 

* * *

 

Aaron regrets nagging Hamilton to get out of their cabin for fresh air, because they can’t enjoy their time together because Sam the sailor always crashes it. He appears behind corridors and follows them around the ship, insisting that he dines with them, and talks so much.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Aaron asks, midway through Sam telling them his life story and that he hasn’t spent more than a week on dry land since he was seventeen.

Hamilton shoots him a glare. _You’re being rude._

Aaron gives him one back. _I don’t care._

Sam looks between them, and obviously gets the idea that he isn’t welcome. “I’m sure there’s something that I could do. See you later?” And he tips his hat at them and leaves.

“You are terrible,” Hamilton says as soon as Sam is out of earshot. “He just wants someone to talk to.”

Aaron frowns and aggressively stirs his tea. “I don’t know why he has to talk to _us_ that much.”

Hamilton looks at him like he’s dumb.

“What?” Aaron asks.

Hamilton looks around them, and then leans in to whisper to him, “He’s flirting with us, you idiot.”

Oh.

“More with me, but that’s just because you discourage him,” Hamilton says. “But I noticed him looking when you wore your tight breeches.”

“He did not.” Did he? And which breeches are Hamilton talking about?

“He did. He wants to touch your booty.”

“Liar.”

“You know I’m right,” Hamilton says. He shrugs. “But it isn’t a surprise, because you know what they say about sailors.”

“What do they say about sailors?” Aaron asks. He doesn’t know why he humors Hamilton when he’s like this.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hamiltons says. “Men choosing to live on the sea with only with other men, and it often gets hot and they don’t wear many clothes…and then there’s the seamen.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so. I do love a good pun.” Hamilton is quite amused with himself. “But really. I think young men who…favor men tend to gravitate to the lifestyle. Open sea. No rules. I used to see it all the time when I was a clerk.”

“When was that?”

Hamilton dismissively waves his hand. “On St. Croix. I was temporarily in charge of a trading firm. That was quite fun. I was the most authoritarian fourteen year old imaginable. One time, I—”

But Aaron never hears whatever young Alexander did because Sam runs over to them with a rope slung over his shoulder.

“You two should go down below,” Sam says, and Aaron doesn’t like the slight panic in his voice. “There’s a storm ahead.”

He’s right. The wind is picking up, and about twenty miles away on the water is a storm, with dark clouds and lightening flashing.

Hamilton makes a distressed noise.

“Nothing to worry about,” Sam assures them. He really needs to work on his confidence. Or least be a better liar.

Sam tells them to _go_ once more, and then goes off to do something important. Hamilton is still, staring out at the oncoming storm.

“It’s going to be fine,” Aaron says. “It’s just a thunderstorm. It rained every day in London.”

“But—”

“Do you trust me?”

That brings Hamilton up short. “I — yes.”

“Good,” Aaron says, because he doesn’t have the luxury of time to tell Hamilton he’s a fool for trusting him. He takes Hamilton’s hand and leads him through the narrow passages of the ship and around other passengers because Hamilton is too stunned to go himself. Once inside their cabin, Aaron locks it, and then on second thought, unlocks it — just in case they have to make a quick getaway because the room floods or…something worse. He tells himself it won’t come to that.

“Burr?”

Hamilton looks at him anxiously? Hopeful? Aaron knows Hamilton lived through a destructive hurricane when he was a teenager, and now — he looks like a scared child waiting for the bad weather to pass.

 _I was alone,_ Hamilton had told him. _I was alone while I waited for the world to end._

Aaron takes Hamilton’s face between his hands and forces him to look at him. “It’s going to be fine.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I’m going to die, like I should have a long time ago. I wish I died then, because now I’m leaving behind so much. Eliza, my children…” His voice cracks. “You.”

 _Why were you alone?_ Aaron had asked, but Hamilton just shook his head and didn’t answer.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Alexander.”

“You don’t understand,” Hamilton says, and it doesn’t help when the ship rocks, sending Hamilton colliding with him. “See? Oh God, I can’t. I can’t do this, Burr. Aaron, please—”

All Aaron wants is to wrap his arms around Hamilton and keep him safe and take away whatever fears he carries with him, and maybe ask him to call him _Aaron_ again. He wants to stop Hamilton’s tears and talk sense to him, but Hamilton isn’t thinking clearly now, so he has to help him, he has to because he trusts him and he likes him so _so_ much.

“Sit,” Aaron says, because he thinks Hamilton will do better with simple orders. Hamilton does as Aaron says, despite looking unsure, and waits for what to do next.

Right, okay. Aaron rummages through his bag, finds the precious bottle carefully wrapped in a pair of stockings.

His last dose of laudanum. He had been saving it for…something. He guesses this is it. A rainy day.

“No,” Hamilton says when Aaron shows it to him. He turns his head away like a child refusing something icky. “I can handle this. I don’t need to be medically _calmed._ I’m being stupid. I will—”

Thunder cracks outside and he flinches. The storm is loud, and all around them.

“Fuck your damn pride and take it.” Aaron is nearly shouting and he feels bad about that, but Hamilton is being predictably difficult. “Please, Alex.”

Hamilton blinks, tears running down his face. He shakes his head again, but then nods. “Okay. You’re right. But only a little bit.”

“That’s all that’s left.” Aaron undoes the bottle, fills the dropper, squeezes it on Hamilton’s tongue. Hamilton only experimented that one time with it, so the small amount should give him a serenity to get him through without making him loopy.

“Thank you.” Hamilton puts his face to Aaron’s chest, wraps his arms around his waist. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

 _Well, to begin with, you wouldn’t even be in this damn situation,_ Aaron thinks, but it’s followed with, _I don’t know what I would do without you_.

He untangles himself from Hamilton’s arms. The drug has already taken effect and Hamilton moves sluggish, so Aaron helps him out of his jacket and undoes his cravat, and then kneels to take off his shoes. Hamilton lies down and pulls the blanket over himself like a shield. He moves over so he’s against the wall, leaving space next to him. Aaron undresses to his shirt and breeches as well and joins Hamilton in bed, under the protective blanket.

He does feel safer, with Hamilton next to him.

Aaron turns on his side, facing Hamilton. Hamilton smiles at him with a dopey, sleepy grin, but then a wave rocks the ship and he grabs ahold of Aaron’s arm.

“You’re going to be fine,” Aaron says. He removes Hamilton’s hand from him and then kisses Hamilton gently, until Hamilton stops his fussing and kisses him back.

There. He won.

“If you say so,” Hamilton mumbles. He curls against Aaron, settling against him like his cat does. He puts his stockinged feet against Aaron’s. His hair is soft on Aaron’s cheek. It smells like saltwater and his lavender soap. His breathing matches his. Alexander is beautiful, and so is his trust.

 

* * *

 

They are fine, of course. The storm doesn’t gain intensity and it only sounds worse than it is. Once Hamilton realizes this, he mellows, and is lulled to sleep by opium and emotional exhaustion.

Aaron stays awake through the entirety of it. There had been storms like this on the way over to England, but he hadn’t thought much of it. He had just stayed in his cabin and thought, _if the ship capsizes, then so be it._ He doesn’t think much of it now, either, except that Hamilton had been so terribly afraid…

His dear sweet Alex. So brave, asleep and drooling on his pillow.

The storm is mostly uneventful. Aaron sits up and reads by lantern light while Hamilton softly snores next to him. He thinks that Hamilton will wake up when he almost falls out of bed when the ship rocks, but Hamilton peacefully slumbers on.

Hamilton smiles in his sleep. Aaron hopes that he’s dreaming of something nice. He deserves some peace.

_He called me Aaron._

He considers this as the storm rages on outside.

 

* * *

 

The storm lasts for only a couple of hours, leaving only a damp chill in the cabin. Aaron thinks of waking Hamilton, but he hasn’t rested this well since they left London, and he would hate the laudanum to go to waste, so, he lets Hamilton enjoy it.

Plus, Aaron would like some quiet time. He has a lot to think about. Like how his heart felt like it skipped a beat when Hamilton called him _Aaron,_ or that he doesn’t know what he would do without him, and he has to write in his journal to distract himself. He arranges a workstation in bed because Hamilton seemed to complain in his sleep when he had left to get his materials; he places the inkpot on the floor, writes in his lap. He gets some ink on the blanket but it’s fine because it appeases both of them — Hamilton rests, and Aaron has inspiration to write about.

_Restless immigrant finds rest next to me. He says it is because he trusts me. If he didn’t demonstrate such devotion I would think that he was taunting me, but it’s clear that he trusts with the entirety of his heart. It would be annoying, but… I do not know if I trust myself, with him. I fear that the more attached we become, the more it will hurt when the inevitable happens — because good fortune isn’t kind to me — but I like him too much to not gamble that maybe, my fate will change if I rely on his luck for both of us._

 

* * *

 

Aaron writes until his fingers cramp, and goes back to reading his book. Hamilton wakes not long after that. He snuggles closer to Aaron, presses his face against Aaron’s side, muttering something unintelligible.

Aaron looks down as Hamilton slowly open his eyes. His lashes flutter, as though he’s fighting the urge to go back to sleep, but then he jolts awake like a soldier who missed reveille.

“It’s over.” Aaron turns a page in his book and closes it, puts it on the floor next to the bed. “I told you it would be fine.”

“I knew that,” Hamilton says, ill-tempered, like he’s mad at himself. He turns onto his back and stares up at the top bunk. “I acted like a fool. I should be able to cope. I’m not special.”

Aaron keeps himself from saying, _you’re special to me._

He lies on his side facing Hamilton — there isn’t enough room for them to be shoulder to shoulder.

“How do you feel?” Aaron asks. He puts his hand on Hamilton’s stomach. “Queasy?”

“No.” Hamilton sighs. “I’m fine. Thank you for… Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Aaron kisses Hamilton’s frown. “Don’t be so defeated about it.”

Hamilton’s mouth turns up into a smile, and Aaron kisses that, too.

“Did I tell you…?” Hamilton says, but then shakes his head. “When I left home, my ship caught on fire.”

Aaron doesn’t know how in the hell that wasn’t the first thing Hamilton said after _hello_ when he met him in London, but then he realizes Hamilton doesn’t mean America, he meant his first _home,_ the Caribbean.

“I thought it was a bad omen,” Hamilton says. “But then it was fine and then I thought that maybe it was actually a sign. Keep on fighting through the fire, you know?”

“It seems as though that wisdom has served you well,” Aaron says. Hamilton has never taken _no_ as an answer. He always rises from the ashes, like a phoenix.

“That’s how I’ve always been.” Hamilton sounds displeased about it. “I know that you and everyone else think that I’ve had it made, but I’ve struggled to get everything I have. But even then, I never really feel like I deserve it. That I’m not good enough.”

Hamilton’s voice cracks and he takes a moment to compose himself. Aaron kisses his forehead and rubs his arm, encouraging, hopefully comforting. He knows little of Hamilton’s past, only snippets that Hamilton has shared. Orphaned, illness, summer loves, hurricane, leaving the only place he ever knew.

“I didn’t know that being a bastard was a bad thing until after my father left,” Hamilton says, quiet. “We had to go live somewhere else and everyone knew that my mother had us out of wedlock, but that’s only because…I never really understood because I was too young and my mother didn’t tell me everything, but I know it wasn’t her fault. It doesn’t matter why. They tried to ruin my mother, but she was more successful than my father ever was. But then she died. I was lying next to her…that’s why I always check on you when you’re sleeping. It kind of fucks you up when your mother dies next you.”

“Alex…,” Aaron says, but Hamilton shakes his head.

“After she died, it wasn’t long before the vultures came. My mother’s first husband came to seize our estate. We had a little shop that we lived above. We sold foodstuff to the planters. Produce, fish, other necessities. My brother and I could’ve run it by ourselves, but that was taken from us, along with everything else we owned. There was a trial for the property but poor, bastard sons couldn’t own anything. That’s when I learned how the law works. The ones who benefit are the ones in power. That’s why I wanted— _needed_ to be involved in the formation of our government.”

Aaron’s eyes suspiciously sting. He blinks to clear them. “You did well. And you will,” he says, because there is still more that Hamilton can do.

Hamilton shrugs. “But there was nothing I could do then. They auctioned off our things. My mother’s things. I had to sit there and watch as rich slave owners took everything my mother worked so hard to give us. My only bit of happiness was that my cousin bought my thirty-four books and gave them back to me. But then he died too, and then our other cousin who was supposed to take care of us killed himself. After that we…drifted. I lived with a friend of my mother, and my brother became a carpentry apprentice.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Aaron says. He had always believed that Hamilton was unique. One of a kind. But the way Hamilton speaks of him makes him think that he ends in another tragedy, too.

“He died a long time ago,” Hamilton says, confirming Aaron’s suspicions. “At least, I guess that’s what happened to him. He stopped replying to my letters, and there was nobody on the island who could tell me what happened. Maybe he wanted to distance himself from me. I understand. I left my past behind, too.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Hamilton says, in the same calm cadence he’s told the entire story. “I did what I had to do. I became a clerk — like I said — and I negotiated prices because the owner was a dumbass. That’s where I learned my skill for finance. And then a hurricane destroyed everything I knew. I can still remember the sound of trees being ripped from the ground and the howling winds and how I was so sure that I was going to die. But I didn’t, and I wrote about it because there was nothing else I could do, then people noticed me and…and the best thing they could do for me was get rid of me.” He gives Aaron a feeble smile. “So I got on a ship all alone for a strange land, and I never looked back.”

His brave, resilient Alex.

The only thing Aaron knows to do is kiss him. A gentle brush of his lips meeting his, inquisitive. Hamilton responds, pursing those pouty lips and pushes against Aaron’s for more. Always greedy. Kissing Hamilton makes him absolutely giddy — it has since the first time. Kissing Hamilton was the best risk he risk he ever took. Hamilton undoubtedly gives the best kisses he’s ever had. Hamilton kisses him now, pliant to his desire for him and hungry with his own. Aaron loves the wet smacking sounds as they press against each other again and again and how Hamilton keens and parts his lips, an open invitation for more. Aaron takes.

They lazily make out, it lingering without the intention for anything more. Hamilton smells of nervous sweat from earlier but it’s very _Alex_ and Aaron presses his face to his neck and inhales his scent, kissing him there before going back to his mouth. Hamilton puts his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, squeezes as they lick at each other’s mouths. Hamilton’s hair falls across his face and tickles Aaron’s nose. Aaron moves it out of the way, tucking it behind Hamilton’s ear only for it to fall loose again. He rubs his thumb gently over one of Hamilton’s dark, tired eyelids, kisses it, and then repeats the same with the other. Hamilton opens his large, beautiful brown eyes and there is so much there that he can’t say with his fancy abundant words. Aaron hopes that he sees the same within him.

“What about you, Aaron Burr?” Hamilton asks. He kisses Aaron’s forehead where he has begun to develop a deep wrinkle — most likely caused by Hamilton himself. “Tell me about your beginnings.”

Aaron considers telling him that it isn’t his business — because it isn’t — and because he doesn’t _tell_ people about himself. However, if anyone could understand, it would be Hamilton, and the man did just pour his soul out to him…

“It’s nothing near as tragic,” Aaron begins as Hamilton lays his head on his chest. “You already know I’m an orphan. My parents died before I had a chance to miss them,” he says, because there is no way to describe missing something you never really had. “My sister and I went to live with our grandparents, but they died too, and then we got bounced around until we ended up with our uncle.”

Aaron bites down on his tongue. He tastes acid.

“We didn’t get along that well,” Aaron continues. “My uncle was a strict believer in discipline, and that it’s dealt with a heavy hand. I was _disciplined_ often, for many reasons that changed daily.”

“Like what?”

“I stayed up too late reading. I argued about the translation of a Latin phrase. I didn’t say _thank you_ with enough graciousness. He always came up with a reason to get his hands on me. Or his belt or…anything else,” Aaron says. “He beat me like a sack.”

Hamilton makes a distressed sound and he looks like he’s going to _cry,_ goddamn it. He really wishes he wouldn’t.

“That wasn’t discipline,” Hamilton says. “That’s—”

“I know,” Aaron replies. “But it doesn’t matter. I tried to get away a few times. When I was ten,” he says, laughing as he remembers, “I had this idea I was going to run away on a ship. I actually got on one and convinced the captain to let me stay, but my uncle found me. I refused to get off, but we eventually came to an understanding.”

“Meaning?”

“He promised he wouldn’t hurt me,” Aaron says. “But when we got home, he hit me so hard I bled. He said I deserved it, for being a heathen child.”

“Burr,” Hamilton says, and he is crying — for _him_ , over things Aaron hasn’t cried about since he was a child. He never cried that it happened, but only when his body hurt, and there was a point when he stopped crying about that, too.

“I was labeled an _unruly_ child, but they didn’t realize that I was miserable,” Aaron says. “My sister — she’s dead, now — escaped by marrying our tutor, but I saw college as my only way out. That’s why I applied so young. And then the war started, and that was another escape.”

Hamilton’s eyes are wet, and he presses his face against Aaron’s chest, probably wiping his runny nose on his shirt. Aaron rubs Hamilton’s back, humored when he realizes that he’s comforting Hamilton about being sad about _him._

“I turned out okay,” Aaron says. “And so did you, despite everything.”

Hamilton looks at him.

“I used to wish none of those bad things happened to me,” Hamilton says. “But if my mother hadn’t of died and that hurricane didn’t happen, I wouldn’t have had a reason to do what I’ve done. I wouldn’t have come to America or influenced our government or got married or had my children and I wouldn’t have met you. And if that bad shit didn’t happen to you, you wouldn’t have been motivated to leave and your life would have been totally different.”

“I guess so.” It could’ve been different, but some things are meant to be.

 

* * *

 

Aaron wakes to a disturbance. He thinks that there is another storm, but it’s only Hamilton who is turbulent beside him, taken up with a nightmare, thrashing in the blanket and whimpering broken and sad. Sometimes his nightmares pass, and he’s embarrassed when Aaron wakes him, but this one must be terrible — he kicks Aaron in the shin and shouts like he’s getting murdered and Aaron is afraid to touch him but it hurts too much to have Hamilton hurt like that. It’s pitch dark in the cabin, but he finds his shoulder and shakes him awake.

Hamilton gasps for breath as he’s pulled from the nightmare. Aaron feels it hot and quick against his face.

“Betsey?” Aaron feels Hamilton reach out in the dark, press himself close to him like he wants to suffocate in his warmth. “Betsey?”

Aaron hates to tell him _no._ For both of them. Hamilton wants her and she isn’t here. Hamilton whimpers and stifles a sob in Aaron’s skin.

“I forgot where I was.” Hamilton’s voice creaks. “I forgot I left her for…”

 _Me_ , Aaron thinks.

“I had a bad dream,” Hamilton says.

Aaron cards his fingers through Hamilton’s hair. “Sorry,” he says, sleep-slurred. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Aaron slips his hand under the blanket and pats Hamilton’s back — _thump thump_ — and rests his hand on his hip.

“It’s okay,” Aaron mumbles. “I’m here.”

Hamilton sniffles. “You can do one thing for me.”

“Hmm?”

“Hold me?”

“I can do that,” Aaron says, and Hamilton turns his back to him so Aaron can spoon him. Aaron wraps his arm around Hamilton’s middle and rubs his belly and kisses that ticklish spot on his neck that makes Hamilton laugh. Aaron likes being close to Hamilton even though he’s stinky and hairy and his skin sticks to him because Hamilton refuses to wear anything to sleep because it’s too hot. His stupid, dearest, Alex.

Aaron doesn’t sleep until daybreak.

 

* * *

 

“What was your sister like?”

Aaron frowns because the conversation last night wasn’t an invitation for Hamilton to be entitled to every secret he has. Why couldn’t they just stroll on the deck and drink fresh rainwater in peace? Aaron almost regrets saying anything and he feels himself clamming up, but…

…Hamilton looks actually interested, and it does feel nice, to share his life with someone he cares for.

Aaron takes a drink. It tastes like rain.

“Sally was kind,” Aaron says. “She was older than me. She tried to protect me as much as she could, which earned her a few slaps. None of it seemed to bother her, but then she was older and always sick. I’ve always wondered if her grief manifested in that way. We kept in touch until she died. She named her only son after me, and I was going to take care of him, but he died, too.”

Hamilton looks sorry that he asked. “My brother was very laid-back. It used to make me so _mad_ that he could brush things off like it didn’t matter, but he would say, _stop worrying, Alex._ The only thing that could make him mad was me,” he says, smiling. “You two would have gotten along.”

“I’m sure.” He can imagine a young, rambunctious Hamilton. His brother must’ve been a saint.

“He encouraged me,” Hamilton says, continuing. “He told me that I had to leave the island if I wanted to be something. He believed in me, even when our father thought I was — what was it? A nonsensical moron who will fail and bring shame to him.” Hamilton scowls. “I corresponded with him when I was older and financially stable. I offered to help him. He could never admit he was wrong about me. He died poor and alone.”

Aaron stops Hamilton from walking. “You aren’t a failure.”

“I know,” Hamilton says. He stares at a spot to the right of Aaron, in the distance of the ocean. “But sometimes I feel like that impoverished bastard from the island who doesn’t belong and — what are you doing?”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, just takes Hamilton’s hand and leads him around the starboard side, ignoring Hamilton’s complaints, and pulls him into an empty stairwell.

“ _What?_ ” Hamilton asks. “I was having a moment.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” Aaron says. “I couldn’t do that out in the open.”

Hamilton’s lip twitches. “Well, you _could._ Technically.”

“Alex, I’m trying to have a moment.”

“Oh. I apologize. Carry on.”

He wishes he knew Hamilton better when they were younger, so he could’ve made him feel worthy, but he makes up for it now, kissing him and telling him how great he thinks he is.

 

* * *

 

The route back home takes longer than the one leaving it — something about winds and trade routes. It seems to be never ending, every day the same in their tiny dim cabin and endless sea. They could be lost and they wouldn’t know the difference.

To Aaron, it feels like a purgatory between their carefree London life, and the one they have waiting back home. They both know this time alone will end soon, but neither speaks of it. Maybe their relationship will continue, but things will change. At home, they won’t be able to fall asleep together and then wake up at half sleep and work each other up into a frenzy and go back to sleep, sticky and sated. They won’t be able to be as free with their intimacy, like bumping their feet together under tables or putting a hand on the other’s hip because more people will be aware of them and watching. They won’t be able to laze about all day, Aaron massaging Hamilton’s aching feet while Hamilton reads to him, because they have jobs and family and campaigns to run. What they have now isn’t real life.

“We could run away and become pirates.” Hamilton jokes — he’s joking, he must be — one evening when they’re accounting their future. “You and me and the ocean. We could steal from the British.”

“You get too seasick,” says Aaron.

“Ah, damn. Never mind.”

Another fantasy. But, hopefully, what’s next is something better.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton is annoying and Aaron takes a nap to avoid arguing with him. He lies against the wall and falls asleep quickly, dreaming of his precious Cleo scratching on the door to be let in.

He peeks open one eye, sees Hamilton in bed, fastidiously writing on his lap desk. An inkpot sits on the edge, dangerously close to spilling when Hamilton brings his hand across the page.

Aaron shifts, stretching, stops when he hears a rustle of papers falling off him. He looks down the line of his body and he’s covered in a blanket of pages of Hamilton’s scribbles. That lazy oaf.

“Careful, the ink is drying,” Hamilton mumbles. His eyes stay fixed on his writing.

That annoyance flares again, but it quickly fades. Hamilton’s glasses have slipped down his nose and there’s ink on his fingers and he’s using Aaron’s good quill, _again._ He’s hunched over, his hair hanging over his shoulders and fluffy from the humidity, and he’s not wearing anything because he says it’s too warm, which is true, but he could use some modesty. Somehow, there’s ink smeared on his chest under his nipple and on his collarbone. It complements the hickeys decorating his skin. Aaron especially likes the large one on his stomach above his belly button. He took his time with that one, moving his mouth across Hamilton’s soft skin, kissing and sucking and biting to combine several — Hamilton had talked the entire time Aaron marked him, _I was thinking of redecorating the foyer — oh that’s nice, right there — what do you think about tan curtains? Mmm, I like it when you use your teeth. The sofa should go by the south window — you aren’t going to touch my cock at all, are you? You’re awful. You’ll help rearrange the room, of course—_

“You could use the actual table,” Aaron says. His arm is cramping but he doesn’t move so he won’t mess up Hamilton’s papers.

“It’s more comfortable in bed.” Hamilton looks up at Aaron. “And you are a convenient place for my papers.”

“I’m glad my body is useful.”

“Very useful,” Hamilton says. He caps the ink and has that devious smile he gets when he has a bad idea. “Very, very useful.”

Hamilton leans across his desk and kisses Aaron, his freshly written words smudging on his skin. Aaron runs his fingers over it, as though he could read it, but he can’t. It’s all a blur.

Hamilton moves off the bed with more haste than someone with his injury should, but his cock is at half-mast so that explains it. He puts his desk on the floor and gathers his papers off of Aaron — they’re wet, he smudges them with his fingers — and then climbs back in bed, tossing off the blanket and tugs at Aaron’s shirt. He forgot to take off his glasses and they press against Aaron’s cheekbone when he kisses him. Aaron takes them off, lays them on the floor on the small desk as Hamilton crawls on top of him and mouths at his neck, _I want you, please, Burr_ , rubs his cock against his, grabs at Aaron with inky hands, leaving fingerprints on his skin and the sheets and everywhere.

 

* * *

 

Aaron loves Hamilton’s body. He loves how it looks and he loves what he can do with it. Hamilton _should_ be proud. A beautiful mix of curves and strength and lean. He’s lost some weight from constant nausea and anxiety and his fancy clothes don’t fit him tailor-perfect, but he still has that soft tilt of his hip that’s nice to hold on to when Aaron grinds against him. He loves Hamilton’s ankles and his strong legs and every one of his scars. He loves Hamilton’s ass that, yes, has freckles on it, and he loves Hamilton’s cock and how it grows larger as he gets hard. He even loves how Hamilton rolls his hips so his cock flops against his stomach. There isn’t much he doesn’t like about Hamilton.

Ink stains the sheets. Hamilton lies in them as Aaron appreciates his body. His hair is fanned out and he’s lightly touching himself and smiling at Aaron, and Aaron has to take a moment just to look at him because he’s so damn gorgeous. Hamilton notices and spreads his legs so Aaron can sit between them and attend to his cock. Aaron wraps his hand around it and flicks his tongue at the head, making Hamilton whine _oh_ every time he’s licked. Aaron smiles, and cradles Hamilton’s balls with his other hand, and Hamilton makes a delicious sound. He does love that. They’re heavy and sensitive in Aaron’s hand, he’s turned on and drenched in sweat from Aaron working him over too long without relief, and Hamilton gasps when he thumbs over one of them.

“Tomcat is a good name for you,” Aaron says. He takes his cock in his mouth, tightens his lips around him and drags off slow. Hamilton moans loudly, bucking his hips towards his mouth. Aaron chuckles, kissing his bony hip. “You’re always yowling.”

“Because you’re _torturing_ me,” Hamilton says. He licks his lips and shuts his eyes and his cock leaks precome. “You’re so mean to me. You — _oh._ ”

And Hamilton falls silent. Aaron could say it was on accident, but he intended to, slipping his hand down and pressing his forefinger on Hamilton’s perineum. He was…interested what would happen. He rubs there, sucks at his cock, licking flatly over the tip, swallows. He watches in delight as Hamilton’s cock twitches as he rubs at that place behind his balls, liking how Hamilton grabs the sheets and shudders all over.

“I want to fuck you,” Aaron says, and he doesn’t really know _what_ he’s saying, all he knows is that Hamilton makes him so damn crazy out of his mind with want. He rubs Hamilton harder, his fingertip brushing close to _there_. “I could go inside you.”

Hamilton swears —  _holy fucking shit, Burr_ — his cock giving another involuntary twitch and he pulls the sheet from where it was tucked under the mattress. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Well, do you want me to?” Aaron licks up Hamilton’s shaft and then grips him tight around the base, because he has the feeling Hamilton won’t last long if he doesn’t slow down. “Alex?”

Hamilton shakes his head. Not what he had been expecting.

“Not now,” Hamilton says. He sounds disappointed, and he makes an effort to look at Aaron. “It takes too long to get ready for that, and I swear to God if I don’t come within the next few minutes I think I’ll die.”

“How dramatic.” Aaron crawls up next to Hamilton’s body, kisses him roughly, possessive. He’s glad in a way that Hamilton said no because he wasn’t sure about it anyway, even though he’s thought a lot about putting his cock inside Hamilton.

Hamilton pulls away, catching Aaron’s bottom lip between his teeth. He’s got that devious smile again, and Hamilton does have such wonderful ideas…

“There’s something else.” Hamilton turns over so his back is to Aaron, and then he scoots so his ass is against Aaron’s cock. Aaron puts his hand on Hamilton’s hip and grinds against the crease of his ass, which is wonderful and relieves that need to rub on Hamilton, but Hamilton looks over his shoulder like he’s doing it wrong.

“Put it between my thighs,” Hamilton says. “Right there. It’ll feel good.”

Aaron is sure it will feel good. Hamilton squeezes his thighs together and Aaron holds his cock steady and pushes the head experimentally between them. It’s tight and warm and wet from Hamilton’s sweat and feels so marvelous that he thrusts forward all the way.

Hamilton yelps, his hand reaching back and scrambling to grab Aaron’s hip, keeping him there. Aaron’s cock bumped against something and with a curl of heat in his stomach he realizes it’s Hamilton’s balls. Hamilton made such a nice sound the first time, Aaron repeats the motion, pulling out and sliding back in, aided by sweat and his precome. Hamilton moans, wrecked, “ _Burr._ ”

“You have to be quiet.” Aaron snakes his hand around and wraps his hand on Hamilton’s cock. “Everyone is going to know what I’m doing to you.”

“Don’t care,” Hamilton says. Desperate for friction, he’s caught between thrusting into Aaron’s hand and rubbing his ass against Aaron so Aaron’s cock slides between his thighs. Aaron kisses the back of his neck and pushes in harder, enough to make Hamilton stop his wiggling and moan louder.

Aaron starts to stroke Hamilton, and Hamilton head lolls back against him. Hamilton squeezes his thighs tighter and that drives Aaron to push between his legs harder, faster, like he’s actually fucking him, like he’s _inside_ of Hamilton. The force of it makes the bed shake so much he thinks the top bunk might fall down, but he can’t stop thrusting into that tight heat of Hamilton’s soft, sensitive skin. Hamilton keeps making those noises and Aaron would love nothing more than to bring more of those out, but the walls are thin and sound echoes on the ship. Aaron shushes him, but Hamilton just moans louder. It’s either make him be quiet or stop. The choice is easy.

He runs his hand up Hamilton’s back, caresses his neck, and then moves his hand to his mouth, his other hand still moving on Hamilton’s cock. He lightly brushes his fingers over Hamilton’s lips before pressing down as Hamilton lets out another fractured moan.

“Is this okay?” Aaron lays his hand over Hamilton’s lovely mouth. “Alex?”

Hamilton nods. He says something that might sound like _please_ but his mouth is covered up, quiet. Instead of talking he arches into Aaron’s touch, pants hot against his palm, whines muffled as Aaron speeds up, fucking into those thighs that Aaron has so often admired. He looks between them, watching as his cock pushes in, dragging against Hamilton’s ass and his hips going flush to Hamilton’s and he can’t help but say, “you look so good on my cock.”

Hamilton digs his fingernails into where he’s gripping Aaron’s hip and he comes while Aaron’s hand is on him mid-stroke, his body jerking with the force of it and moaning into Aaron’s hand over his mouth. He keeps his legs together and Aaron swears and thrusts forward and with Hamilton’s sweet body coming undone against him, he comes between Hamilton’s thighs.

There’s only a couple minutes of afterglow with them lying against each other. Hamilton fidgets, complains, and Aaron’s soft cock slips from between Hamilton’s thighs as he turns over to face Aaron. His face is still flushed from exertion, or perhaps embarrassment, which Aaron is starting to feel himself.

He likes Hamilton, and he is attracted to him — very much so — but it’s difficult to contend with every new discovery that he makes him feel. He wants Hamilton with a madness of his soul unlike any he’s ever experienced. He likes doing things with Hamilton that he never thought of before, and he feels stupid, regretful, and ashamed that he’s as old as he is and only now realizing it. What else does he not know about himself…?

Hamilton must sense he’s troubled. He puts his hand to Aaron’s face, cupping his cheek. “Are you okay? Please say something.”

Aaron smiles. “I’m fantastic.” He really is — he’s sex-lazy and Hamilton is next to him. “You?”

Hamilton mirrors his smile. “I’m _great_ ,” he says. “That was, um. A lot of fun.”

Fun. Sex really is better when it’s with someone you’re crazy about. He had forgotten what it was like.

“A bit messy, though.”

“Well, that’s expected, isn’t it?” Hamilton moves his legs. “Although, my thighs are chafed. And are sticking together.”

“And you came on the wall,” Aaron says. He stares pointedly at it — he only just noticed it, pearly white and splattered on the wooden wall.

Hamilton looks over his shoulder and then back to Aaron. He’s proudly grinning.

“That was a good shot there, huh?” says Hamilton. “I have a far trajectory when I come really hard.”

“Don’t be gross, Alexander,” says Aaron, scolding, but Hamilton is giggling and being _loud._ “Stop. Everyone will hear you, if they didn’t already.”

“ _Me?_ ” Hamilton puts a hand to his chest, as though he’s offended. “It’s impossible to be totally quiet, but I was hardly making noise. I don’t know why you thought you had to muzzle me. You were the noisy one.”

“I was not,” Aaron says.

Hamilton snorts. “Seriously? You were grunting in my ear the entire time and you were shouting near the end.”

“Liar.”

“You were. You were like—” and Hamilton moves his hips as if he were fucking and he makes his voice husky to mock Aaron, “ _Alex Alex fuck you feel amazing uh uh yes fuck—_ ”

Aaron gives Hamilton a pat on his rear. “Stop that.” Aaron’s face burns. He felt— _feels_ so exposed. He knows Hamilton isn’t intending to humiliate him, but he is a bit embarrassed. It isn’t like him to lose control like that, but he does when he’s with Hamilton — he always has.

“I’ve never heard you be so loud.” Hamilton trails his hand down Aaron’s side, and he has that self-satisfied, roguish grin that Aaron both hates and adores. “I guess I’m just that good.”

“Shut up,” Aaron says. “Nobody likes a braggart.”

“Really? Because I think you do and—”

Aaron kisses him. Yes. That’ll show him.

 

* * *

 

And he knows he’s right when sailors pass by and wink at them. Hamilton smiles back and says, “Hello, boys,” and leans against the railing to show off the muscles in his calves. Aaron is embarrassed for both of them.

“Stop preening,” Aaron snaps. “Or I’ll throw you overboard.”

Hamilton mutters something that sounds like, “Jealous,” but Aaron pretends it’s the wind.

After the embarrassment passes, Aaron realizes that he doesn’t actually mind the attention. It’s flattering to have young, pretty men make eyes at him. It’s nice to know both ladies and men want to take him to bed.

However, when Sam outright propositions to them, Aaron has had enough, because he doesn’t like how Hamilton blushes and makes a joke back and he doesn’t like how the sailor checks out Hamilton’s ass while Aaron is standing _right there._

“He’s mine,” Aaron says, cutting in the conversation. “I thought you would have figured that out when you heard me fucking him last night.”

Hamilton blushes red, all the way to his ears. Aaron feels a bit a victory because it isn’t often that he makes Hamilton that embarrassed, but he shouldn’t be flirting — he _trying_ to wind him up, he should have expected that.

Sam blushes, too. He shrugs and says, “it was worth a try,” and then winks at them again, goddamn it.

Aaron takes Hamilton back to their cabin. Hamilton doesn’t say anything but he’s grinning like a smartass. He finally speaks when Aaron locks the door and sits on the bed next to him.

“It’s kind of hot when you’re jealous.”

“Shut up,” Aaron says, and pushes Hamilton to the bed, kissing him.

 

* * *

 

Bad storms aren’t common in the Atlantic during the late summer, but not impossible.

Sam says for days that one is ahead. “I can smell it in the air,” he says. He deeply inhales. “Yeah. It’s out there.”

Aaron looks out at the ocean. It’s the same view it’s been for weeks. Nothing but blue.

Hamilton shivers and takes a step closer to Aaron. “What will we do?”

“We can try and go around it, but we don’t know how big it is or where it’s going.” Sam gives him an apologetic frown. “We’re just going to have to brave it.”

 

* * *

 

They hunker down in their cabin, and wait. Aaron does his best to make Hamilton feel good. He gets spare bedding and makes a blanket nest for them, massages Hamilton’s shoulders, barters for someone’s split pea soup because he knows Hamilton likes it.

When the rain finally starts, Hamilton goes quiet. He curls up with Aaron in their bed, lays his head on his chest. It isn’t any worse than any other storm they’ve encountered on the water, and if Aaron closes his eyes, it feels like they’re back in London.

“This isn’t so bad.” Aaron rubs Hamilton’s back. “It’s going to be fine.”

“It isn’t over yet,” Hamilton says.

He regrets saying anything a half hour later when the storm turns brutal. A wave slams against the ship and knocks both of them onto the floor. Hamilton lands on top of him and his elbow jabs him in his kidney. He’s worried Hamilton is hurt, but he’s just shaken. He has to be firm with Hamilton to make him get off the floor — it’s like Hamilton is frozen — but eventually he moves and Aaron grabs his arm and hauls him back onto the bed. They sit with their backs against the wall to keep from falling off again, listening to the storm is loud outside.

Aaron is afraid. It sounds like the ship is going to break into splinters, and he suddenly thinks Hamilton’s fear isn’t that unreasonable. He thinks of how quietly destructive water can be, wearing away at cliffs and changing the landscape. But this is intentionally ruinous. It could destroy a town, wash away everything and leave nothing behind.

Hamilton holds his hand tight and says, “I’m scared,” and Aaron wishes he could say, “Me, too,” but he can’t. He can’t fall apart with him.

The storm goes on, and Hamilton is accepting his death. “If I die,” he begins, and Aaron tells him to shut up but he continues, “This is important, Burr!”

“Okay,” Aaron says. He wraps his arm around Hamilton. The comfort is for both of them.

“If I die, marry Eliza.” Hamilton sounds like he’s given this some thought. “After an appropriate time of mourning, of course. I don’t want either of you to be alone.”

“You aren’t going to die, Alex.” He doesn’t mention that if Hamilton were to die in this storm, he probably would be dead, too.

“Promise me!” Hamilton shouts, crying. “ _Please.”_

“Yes, I will, I promise.”

Hamilton continues. “Have a dozen babies with her and name them all after me—”

“A dozen?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “And…and don’t kiss another man, _ever_.”

Aaron kisses him.

“Why would I want anyone else after I’ve had the best?”

And Hamilton smiles, holds onto him as though he’s trying to keep from drowning.

 

* * *

 

The storm passes. Hamilton is so embarrassed he doesn’t mention any of the outlandish things he made Aaron promise. They lie down together, exhausted. They should go above deck to see how everyone fared, but he wants to be alone with Hamilton. He presses his lips to his temple, runs his hand down his arm, just to be touching him, because they’re both there and alive.

Hamilton sniffles, and his lip trembles.

“What’s wrong?” Aaron coos, wraps his arm around him. “We’re both okay. And home is only a week away.”

“I know.” Hamilton clears his throat. His eyes are glassy. “I just keep thinking that it might not have been okay.”

“But it is.”

“But it just as easily couldn’t have been,” Hamilton says. “And then I wouldn’t have been able to see Eliza again, or tell Angie that I love her no matter who she loves, and Rita would have grown up without knowing her father, and…” He blinks as a tear falls from his eye and runs sideways down his nose. He wipes it away.

“You must dislike me for this,” Hamilton says. “Don’t you think I’m a fool?”

“For demonstrating compassion for your family?”

“For…” Hamilton takes a deep breath and wipes his face again. “For getting emotional like this. For crying. It’s unmanly.”

Oh, Alex. If he only knew that was one of his favorite things about him.

“You live by doing everything to excess,” Aaron says. “So what if you cry a lot? It isn’t unmanly. It’s a bodily function, like—”

“I can guess where you’re leading.” Hamilton sighs. “Jefferson said once…”

“What did that fuckwit say to you?”

Hamilton bites his lip. “You know, how I cry sometimes when I get frustrated? I was very frustrated when I had to negotiate with him. He said tears are the currency of ladies, but he wouldn’t expect a half-breed to differentiate between the sexes.”

“Remind me to have a chat with Jefferson when we get to America.”

“But really,” Hamilton says. “You don’t think it’s…weak?”

Aaron considers it. He doesn’t cry — not because he thinks it’s shameful, but he just doesn’t.

“No,” Aaron says. “I think it takes more strength to cry. To be in touch with your feelings and know when something upsets you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Does that sound like something I would do?”

Hamilton laughs, the sound uneven. “No, not really.”

“Right,” Aaron says. “Because I’m terribly cruel.”

“The meanest.”

Aaron kisses him in a way that’s anything but mean. He doesn’t care about Alexander’s feelings, except when he does.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton cries when they see American shoreline on the horizon.

They find a place on the deck away from the other passengers. Aaron looks ahead while Hamilton collects himself. They watch the approaching coast in silence, until Hamilton breaks it.

“I wasn’t sure about leaving England,” he says.

Aaron turns to him and at least Hamilton has the decency to look guilty. Aaron doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry with him, and he’s _shot_ him over a dispute. How dare Hamilton say that when he assured him it was the right thing to do, how could he—?

“Everything was different there,” Hamilton says, quick, like he’s kept the words bundled up and they need to be free. “It felt like a dream, almost. I was so happy, and so were you. I thought that we would…lose it. This. Whatever this is between us.”

Aaron is still caught on the fact that Hamilton wasn’t _sure_ he wanted to leave. “You said it wouldn’t change. Do you…do you feel differently?”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Burr. A long time ago, I promised myself I would never get on another ship. And then you left. You _left_ me. And I got on a ship and went after you, because I’m tired of people leaving me. I knew it was the right decision.”

“And?”

“Today we saw the shoreline, and it was home.” Hamilton reaches out, grabs Aaron’s hand. “I know now that we had to leave, because this is our home. And you’re still here.”

“Yes, I am,” Aaron says, and he kisses Hamilton with New York in the distance.

 

* * *

 

For such a long journey, the last part happens quickly. They’ll be at their city by the afternoon and it gets in better detail the more they watch it approach. They go back to their cabin and pack up — again, their things strewn around the small space even though they tried to keep it clean — and they take what Aaron calls a whore bath, wiping their smelliest bits with a wet cloth. Hamilton shaves and looks like himself again, albeit slightly pale and thinner in his clothes.

Hamilton is the first one in line when they disembark. They bid Sam and the other sailors goodbye, and Hamilton hurries off the ship with Aaron struggling to catch up. Aaron thinks that Hamilton might kiss the ground but he just stands and looks towards the city with a smile on his face.

“It feels like it did the first time,” he says. His eyes are shiny. “I’ve missed this place.”

Aaron comes up beside him. There’s a breeze off the Hudson.

“Are you going to stand here all day?” Aaron asks, and Hamilton goes off again, shouting at someone to take their luggage and load it on a carriage.

Hamilton is quiet on the long ride uptown to the Grange. His mind must be as busy as Aaron’s — wondering what’s changed since they’ve been gone, if their families will be upset with them, how their new relationship will be received, if things really will be the same between them.

But then he sees that big yellow house, and he feels a joyful tranquility that has been missing since he left in the middle of the night, many months ago. Hamilton holds his hand and whispers, “It’s going to be all right,” and he knows he’s telling the truth.

Theo is waiting out front, with Eliza and the whole flock of Hamilton kids. Hamilton opens the door before the carriage has stopped moving and he half jumps out, stumbling for a moment before rushing towards Eliza.

She makes it to him first — Hamilton drops his cane to embrace her with both arms. Aaron doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s crying.

He sits in the carriage and watches the couple reunite. It only hurts a little bit. He expected it to.

But then Theo grabs his arm and drags him from the carriage, and she’s crying and scolding him for leaving her and makes him promise to never do anything that stupid again. He dries her tears and hugs her again, tells her that her papa is stupid but he never meant to make her sad, and he is very, very, very sorry.

“Burr!”

He hasn’t been forgotten.

Aaron looks over to where the Hamiltons are — currently all the children are trying to get Hamilton’s attention at once. Hamilton holds the smallest in his arms and one is tugging at his sleeve and another is crying and one of the older ones is trying to not look excited but failing. Hamilton motions for him to come over, so he does, with Theo’s arm locked with his.

“James, you grew at least five inches, you’re almost as tall as me! And you really need a haircut, John. Yes, Phil, I’ll look at your rock collection. Lizzie, you lost a tooth! Al, son, did you watch out for everyone while I was gone? Good, good—”

“Thank you for bringing him back.”

He had been so distracted by Alexander that he hadn’t noticed Eliza next to him. He laughs, disbelieving, because she is thanking _him_ after he was the reason her husband ran off in the first place. His bafflement must show because she looks at him, cross, and says, “Aaron Burr. You should say _you’re welcome._ ”

Aaron’s mouth perks into a grin. “You’re welcome.”

Eliza nods. They look over to Hamilton, who meets both of their gazes.

“I’m glad you’re back, too,” Eliza says, and then she blushes really pretty and she kisses Aaron on the cheek, just a quick peck, like she has to do it fast or else she’d change her mind.

Aaron stands there, shocked, touching the place where her lips touched him. He feels warm all over and he kind of wishes she would do it again so he would pay better attention. He expects Hamilton to get all in a huff, but he just laughs and untangles himself from his children, handing baby Rita to Angie as he comes over to them, and takes a hand in each of his, smiling so bright and wide that it makes Aaron’s chest ache.

And Aaron is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes**  
>  \- it really did take longer to go back to America than it did to go in the other direction  
> \- all the stuff about Hamilton's sad sad sad childhood is mainly from the first chapter of the Chernow book, including his father leaving and mother dying (duh) and them owning a shop and everything being auctioned off and his cousin buying back wee Alex's 34 books, and Hamilton being a clerk and managing the place for a while and changing things because he thought he could do it better  
> \- I made a lot stuff up about Alex's brother, because there is like nothing about him and his personality. He was a carpentry apprentice (says Chernow). Alex sent his bro [this letter](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-03-02-0444) and in the footnotes it says he died in 1786.  
> \- The stuff about Burr's childhood was true, too. "Timothy was a stern Puritan and Aaron got on badly with him; occasionally, he was "beaten like a sack." The boy was so unhappy, he tried on several occasions to run away.... several times running away from home and attempting to go to sea." ([x](http://www.let.rug.nl/usa/biographies/aaron-burr-jr/) His sister died early, and she married their tutor, Tapping Reeve.  
> \- stars being "silent and sure" is from "Stars" from Les Mis, you know I'm going to try and work in those Javert references, always  
> \- and "there's a breeze off the Hudson" is from the Finale of In the Heights. Yes, I will reference every musical ever.  
> \- Hamilton put a [unicorn on his powder horn](http://foundingfatherfest.tumblr.com/post/5668809663/hamilton-drew-that-unicorn-snerk-it-even-has-a), I guess he thought they were cool  
> \- "we could be pirates" is a homage to thinksideways' [survivor types](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8832745/chapters/20251081) which I love with my whole-ass heart  
> \- and inky sex is a homage to [a hideous kind of intimacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280248/chapters/12186971) also by thinksideways, okay, I just love! Go read these now.  
> \- Sam the sailor takes an extended leave in London, meets Jeremy Bentham, and they fall in love and they live happily ever after ♥ I might really like this idea.
> 
> anyway, thank you for continuing to read this even though it's lengthy and takes SO LONG OMG to update. You all are great! You can always come talk to me on tumblr about whatever.


	23. Eliza I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her Alexander will come back to her. He always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! An Eliza chapter! I bet everyone was wanting to see what would happen with hamburr, but I am a tease. Ha. I've been waiting to put one in for a while and this felt like the right time.
> 
> And I had planned to update sooner - and I did! Within two weeks, wow. I had told myself to write less to make that happen but...it still ended up being many words lol oh well. I have a lot of feelings.
> 
> Thanks to bluecarrot for helping me figure out what the hell direction to take this (clap)

Her Alexander will come back to her. He always does. Eliza has never doubted that. Alexander is as certain as the sunrise, or the beat of her heart. He is her constant.

But she shouldn’t have let him leave.

She should have discouraged his infatuation with that Aaron Burr. Infatuation with Burr became fondness which became…something else. Alexander doesn’t know how to temper himself with things that he enjoys, like petting a cat that scratches him, or eating an entire tray of cookies even though he knows he’ll get a bellyache.

Alexander would have stopped wanting Burr, eventually. Probably. Except that Burr wanted him in return — and she encouraged him too, didn’t she? So in a way, she supposes that she’s to blame for both of them leaving.

No. Alexander and Burr are to blame for their own mistakes. Stubborn, oblivious idiots. They couldn’t just _talk_ about it, because they were too prideful to admit their true feelings. Pride, the same thing that led them to that dueling ground.

And that incident was only over a matter of character. Rejection of romance is much more personal.

She prays that they can forgive, and then allow themselves to be fond of one another. Preferably in that order.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand why he needed to go,” Angelica says a few days later, when Alexander is too far gone, and Eliza wouldn’t be able to catch up to him even if she were able to swim against the currents of the sea.

Eliza is happy Angelica is here. She missed her sister dearly, and she wouldn’t be able to take care of the children alone, not with a newborn. However, Angelica keeps asking questions she can’t answer — either because there are things she can’t tell her no matter how much she trusts her (like, _my husband fancies Aaron Burr and he’s crossing the ocean to fall into bed with him_ ), or because she doesn’t know the answer ( _I don’t know when he’ll be back_ ).

Eliza holds Rita against her chest and rocks her as she cries soft, sniffling tears. She isn’t hungry or wet or tired — it’s just one of those frustrated baby cries. Eliza thinks she misses Alexander. He can settle her when nobody else can.

Eliza coos at her. _I’m sorry your father isn’t here._ She kisses the top of her head, which still has that nice baby smell. Rita must realize that Alexander isn’t there to comfort her, so she quiets, like a flame getting snuffed out.

“They had an argument,” Eliza says. “Alexander said some things he shouldn’t have said, and Burr was offended by it.”

Angelica snorts, in a very unladylike way. “Badly enough that he absconded to another continent?”

Eliza doesn’t bring up that Angelica also went off to England when she had had enough of Alexander.

“Well, Aaron Burr is known to not make the best decisions when emotional,” Eliza says. “I suppose we should be glad that he didn’t try to murder Alexander this time.”

Angelica narrows her eyes at her. Eliza knows that _she_ knows she isn’t telling her everything. She looks down, because she’s afraid she’ll break and tell her all of it. It’s so easy to talk to Angelica. It’s like talking to herself. Nobody knows her like her sister.

But she cannot, not with this. Even if she hates being deceitful. Those men and their _feelings_ have made her into a liar.

No — it isn’t lying. She doesn’t have to share anything. This is between Alexander and Burr, and Alexander and her.

She meets Angelica’s gaze with hers, strong. Doesn’t buckle under the pressure of Angelica’s wordless interrogation. Says, “Alexander knew what he was doing.”

God, she hopes he does.

“I still don’t understand. I know they’ve became close, but…” Angelica doesn’t finish the sentence, as though she wants Eliza to complete the phrase. She’s done that since they were children. Tricking her into revealing information. As an adult, Eliza sometimes falls for it, other times she doesn’t mind and tells her anyway. If Angelica had been born a man, she would have done well in life as a lawyer or politician.

But the thing is: yes, Angelica knows her like her own mind. But Eliza knows hers, too.

“They’ve known each other for a long time. Longer than I’ve known Alexander, actually. He feels a sense of obligation towards him,” Eliza says. It’s the truth. “They formed a bond after… After their previous disagreement.”

Angelica still looks skeptical, but she lets it go.

“Men are stupid,” Angelica says.

Eliza laughs. “Aren’t they, though?”

 

* * *

 

She wrote a message for Burr’s eyes only, which meant that Alexander would read it, too. She gave them her blessing to…to do whatever they want to do. Need to do.

There would be more kissing, she assumes. When Alexander had talked about what it was like to kiss Aaron Burr, he had a dreamy expression like a teenager experiencing his first crush. They would probably do other things, once they have an argument. That’s to be expected. The arguing. She thinks that’s one of the things they like most about each other. It riles them up. But — the other things. What did she tell Alexander? Oh, yes. _Nasty boy things._

She blushes scarlet when she thinks of Burr and her Alexander together. Alexander makes her weak in the knees and warm all over, even after all these years, and Burr is very nice to look at. Eliza isn’t blind. Burr has lived in their house for too long for her not to notice him, and she’s heard through the grapevine that he’s good under the sheets (said a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from someone who was told by woman who laid with the man, herself). Alexander will appreciate that. He likes sex, and apparently, so does Burr. Alexander mentioned offhand — in jealousy, although he didn’t admit it — that Burr frequents prostitutes because he has a large sexual appetite.

Heat twists in spot she can’t cool. She shouldn’t think of this — not when it involves a man other than her husband. But she can’t help but imagine how they’d press their lips together, yielding to the feelings they’ve held within them, how they’d touch each other in places that make them gasp. Would they take the time to admire each other when they’re unclothed, or would they rush, desperate for contact? She wonders how they compare, in looks and in size — she’s only had Alexander, and his…he makes her feel wonderful, but would another man feel different? Better? She grips her dress in her fists, remembering the way Burr’s breeches fit in the front… And who would take the lead? They’d probably fight about it. Alexander is passionate, and likes to guide their lovemaking, but other times he lies back and begs for her to do as she wishes. Her having pleasure gives _him_ pleasure. It probably would be the same with Burr. He just _wants_ him, in whatever way. What do men do together? Handle each other, of course. That should be familiar enough. Men are endlessly entertained by yanking on themselves. And then there are their mouths, and she knows that Alexander likes servicing men as much as he likes it done on himself.

She isn’t ignorant of Alexander’s desires for men. At first, she had been unsure, but then she thought: a person is a person, aren’t they? What’s under someone’s clothes are just _parts._ She’s attracted to Alexander because she thinks he’s good looking and charming, not because she can make babies with him. She’s never felt that same attraction to another woman, but she can understand it.

She’s never shamed Alexander for it. Especially after she saw how much he could _love_ a man. She couldn’t conflate something so pure with being wrong. Love can never be wrong. And he loved John Laurens. She’ll never forget when he got that letter that broke his heart and told him Laurens had died, and he locked himself away for days and days until he couldn’t stand it anymore and told her everything — that he loved him, not how a comrade should, and he did things with him that could get him shot but he didn’t care because he liked him so much. He had expected her to get angry because he had been right all along — that he would let her down and he’s trash like everyone said. But she wasn’t angry, never. Not for that.

Alexander is made of multitudes. He has enough kindness in his soul for many. It’s gotten him in trouble many times, but she loves that about him.

As long as he leaves room for her.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks pass, and there is no word from Alexander. She hadn’t been expecting to hear anything because he has to get to England first, and then his letter has to make it all the way back across the ocean to her. But still.

The younger children are upset and ask every day when he’s going to come home. His business trips take him away only for two weeks at most. They’re used to having him at home, safe. The older ones miss him too, even though they’re used to him being away when he was working as the Treasury Secretary. They console their younger siblings, telling them their father will be fine, but Eliza knows they worry.

And Eliza will worry about him until he’s with her again.

The younger kids pile in her bed at night — her babies not old enough to be embarrassed to seek comfort from their mother. William on one side, Lizzie and little Phil on the other, Rita asleep on her chest. All of them have Alexander’s big, expressive eyes, and they are all so _sad._ She doesn’t even mind when they stay up past their bedtimes, talking.

“Why did Pops leave?” Lizzie asks, distressed. “I would have liked to go to England. He should have taken all of us with him.”

“He left because of mister Burr,” says William. “It’s _his_ fault.”

“William,” Eliza says, warning. The boy isn’t entirely wrong, but he doesn’t understand. He’s innocent, thinking of the world too simply, with no gray in between black and white. She runs her fingers through his hair. It’s pin-straight like hers. He mumbles an apology and rests his head on her shoulder. He’s a good kid.

“It isn’t anybody’s fault,” Eliza says. “Your father left because he wants to help mister Burr. He wouldn’t do that if mister Burr was bad, would he?”

“No,” Phil says, piping up from under the covers with that assurance that only five year olds can have. “Pops is smart.”

Eliza laughs. “Yes.” Usually.

“And I _like_ mister Burr,” Phil says. “He’s funny.”

Phil was too young to really remember anything from when Alexander almost died because of Aaron Burr. He was the only one of the children who took to Burr right away. The others had to be convinced, but they forgave him after seeing their father befriend him.

They ask too questions, the same ones they’ve asked before.

Phil, “When will Pops come home?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

William, “Is mister Burr going to come back with him?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

Lizzie, “Pops still loves us, doesn’t he?”

“Always.”

They fall quiet for a moment, and she thinks they’ve fallen asleep, thank goodness, but then Lizzie says, “Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?” Eliza hears Lizzie sniffle, which makes Phil get teary, too. Her poor babies.

“Angie said Pops went to visit Philip,” Lizzie says, “but Philip—”

“Shh.” Eliza kisses her on the forehead.

They all know. They just don’t talk about _that_ in their family.

She waits until the kids are asleep, and then gets out of bed, gently rocking Rita in her arms. She wishes she could hold all her babies at the same time, so she can always protect them from the sadness in the world.

 

* * *

 

Theo Burr has been withdrawn since her father left. She’s quiet at meals, and associates only with Angie and Al. Otherwise, she spends her time alone.

Eliza wonders if Theo thinks she feels badly towards her, or thinks of her as an outsider. Neither of those are true. Eliza has always wanted her to feel accepted. She has no mother or siblings and her father wavers between distant and overbearing.

And she’s in love with her daughter.

Eliza is sure that Theo truly _believes_ she loves Angie, but she knows what will happen. Theo will find someone else — a man — and she’ll like having a normal life more than she likes Angie. Once she has a family, she will forget all about Angie, and Angie will be left alone. When the blindness that new loves fades, she will begin to see Angie as a burden. Eliza wants to let Angie make her own choices, but she doesn’t know any better. Angie is innocent, doesn’t see the pains in the world — she couldn’t accept that her brother is dead, so she doesn’t — and Eliza feels like Theo is taking advantage of Angie’s kindheartedness without thinking how badly she could hurt her.

Eliza is tired of the Burrs. They are like an invasive plant. Quickly taking over and impossible to get rid of, no matter how much you try to pull them away from the root. She doesn’t hate Aaron Burr or his daughter, but her life would be simpler without them. She’s just…accepted them. She opened her home to them, because she felt bad for them. Allowed Alexander to chase after Burr because he makes him _happy_. Let her child carry on with a silly relationship because it makes her happy. She wants the ones she loves to be happy, always, but—

—not at the expense of her own happiness.

She does have a limit. When she reaches it, she does not break — she gets stronger. She doesn’t like to be that way. It makes her closed off and she does something like destroy all her love letters to Alexander. All that love, went up in smoke. Pages and pages of it, enough for a book, turned into a pile of ash.

She feels like she could burn something.

 

* * *

 

A letter comes from Alexander, battered from its journey across the Atlantic, but it’s safe in her hands and tells her that he made it to the other side of the ocean, safe. He and Burr came to an understanding (with _came_ underlined, Alexander isn’t subtle at all). Everything is okay.

There is no mention of when he plans to return.

The bed is too big when she’s alone in it, and much too lonesome without Alexander’s warm, comforting presence next to her. One benefit of his injury — and just being older, in general — is that he sleeps more than he used to. No more can he skip a day of sleep, and when he _did_ sleep, it was just enough to keep from passing out with exhaustion. She doesn’t expect for him to be gone in the morning, leaving his side of the bed empty.

But he isn’t here, now.

She is restless. She misses Alexander. She misses his company, she misses his voice, and she misses him the way a wife misses her husband. She waits until late at night when all the children and Angelica are asleep, and locks herself in her bedroom, alone. She knows exactly what she’s been wanting, and she isn’t shy about giving it to herself.

Alexander encouraged her to do this. When they were younger and she was reserved that she had wants, that wanted him and she missed him in her bed when he was away. He had smiled and told her, _I think of you and touch myself when I feel like that_ , and that made her feel things she never felt before, and he made her feel good to have those desires. He asked to watch her while she touched herself, but then he got too impatient and he had to, ah, have his cake and eat it too.

She thinks of him. His looking up from between her legs, his lips sticky from her sex, smiling like he knows he’s done a good job. Calling her _beautiful_ and rubbing himself against her until she begs for him inside her. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine that her fingers feel like him, but not really — he’s much better. Usually. Sometimes he forgets and focuses only on himself, but that’s good in a different way, when he wants her so badly he takes her hard and quick and he whimpers like it still isn’t enough, and she rubs his back and calls him _sweetheart_ and he cries, just a little bit.

Her breath hitches thinking of Alexander in her, the two of them becoming one. He’d kiss her and tell her lovely things, until he’s too overwhelmed to speak and he moves in the right way that makes her moan and tighten down on him. He is an expert of her body, and she of his. Her Hamilton…

She sleeps well that evening.

But in the morning, even though the heat wicking at her insides has quelled, she wakes just as dissatisfied. Alexander has left her wanting too many things, and without a way to satisfy them.

 

* * *

 

When they were courting, Alexander scolded her for not writing as much as he wrote to her, as though his rambling was a measure of his love. Proof.

It had been proof to her, too. It might have been love, but she soon learned that words are just words.

She writes back to Alexander. Multiple letters full of love, sent a few days apart. She will never be able to out-write him, but she can try.

 

* * *

 

Eliza observes Theo and Angie, surreptitiously. She watches their interactions, noticing their shared smiles and affectionate touches that she wouldn’t have thought anything of under normal circumstances. How unperceptive for her not to have realized. Especially with Alexander being the way he is! It isn’t uncommon for two women to live together and never get married, and they always seem to be very happy…

It makes sense, now.

That could be a good future for Angie, if she trusted Theo wanted that for herself as well. However, Eliza doesn’t trust a Burr not to act in their best interest.

If she watches the pair enough, she will find a reason to end their relationship. If she sees that Theo is the slightest bit insincere with her feelings, she can stop it before it gets more serious. It would hurt, but it’s better that it ends sooner than later, before the other hasn’t had the chance to inscribe themselves on your heart.

But it’s too late — they are inscribed upon each other, and Theo isn’t doing anything wrong. In fact, Eliza would be planning a wedding if that were possible for them. Theo and Angie have their little spats like any lovers do, but they are definitely better together than they would be apart. Theo is helpless when she’s with Angie — Eliza recognizes that _look,_ because she once was helpless herself — and Angie hasn’t been this happy since…

Eliza knows true love when she sees it.

She’s ashamed she thought of ruining something so perfect.

 

* * *

 

Her children need their father. No matter how much they love her, there are some things where they prefer Alexander to her. He’s funnier, he’s more trusted to check for monsters under the bed, he’s better at helping with their schoolwork, he spoils them with dessert before dinner. Eliza doesn’t mind. The kids come to her for hugs when they’re sad and they actually _talk_ to her about their problems.

But she’s been so wrapped up in her worries and tending to the younger children and worrying about Angie and Theo, that she hadn’t noticed that Al has his own worries.

Al has always been reserved. Second sons are often neglected — much like second daughters — but Al never _wanted_ the attention one with his inherited name might expect. Or, he’s never asked for it. He would never ask because he’s a good kid. He does what he’s told. When it was his turn to step up as the oldest, capable child and continue the family legacy, he did so without complaint.

He never complains. She wishes he would. He’s too much like her in that way.

But Al has been acting different. He’s been easily agitated and more quiet than usual. Eliza knows that when she’s like that, it’s when the worries get to be too many to carry. He’s been working too much lately, going downtown to manage Alexander and Burr’s legal office. Another responsibility he didn’t ask for.

She finds Al in his room, working at his desk with a mess of papers and books. He doesn’t notice her because he’s too preoccupied with the book he’s reading. Eliza watches him for a moment, not wanting to interrupt.

Al scowls at the book and tugs on one of his curls. He’s clearly frustrated with something. Eliza wishes she could take all his work away so he would stop making himself sick over it, but it would be useless because Al always follows through on what’s expected of him.

He continues to read and mutters something to himself, shakes his head, and shuts the book as though he disagreed with something so much he couldn’t even look at it anymore. He leans back in his chair, stretches, and then sees Eliza in the doorway. He smiles, and Eliza feels herself smiling in return.

“Hello, Mama,” Al says, and he gets the other chair for Eliza without being asked. He waits until she sits for him to do the same. He’s happy to see her, but he seems more happy to have a reason to ignore his work. “How are you?”

“I’m alright.” Eliza calms Al’s hair where his curls are wild. “But what I’d really like to know is how you’re feeling.”

Al pulls away from her, nervously runs his hand through his hair, messing it up again.

“I’m fine.” Al glances off to the side, then back to her. Bless him for being unable to lie to his mother’s face.

“Be honest, Alexander.”

“You know I don’t like to be called by that.”

Eliza sighs. He doesn’t. He likes being individual, but it comes natural to call him by that name that when he’s being difficult.

“Al,” she says, gentle. “I know you’re stressed. It isn’t good to keep it all inside you like that.” She touches his chin, tilting it up because he’s looking down. “You can talk to me.”

His cheek twitches, fighting a frown, but then his composure shatters, like he’s being waiting for permission to be anything less than perfect.

“I feel like a failure,” Al says.

Eliza’s heart breaks — none of her children could ever be a failure. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I _am,_ ” he says, insistent. “I’m taking care of the business and the clients think I’m stupid—”

“Did they say that?”

“No, but I know they think so. They ask questions I can’t answer and all they really want to know is when my father is returning. They just see me as his stupid, young child.”

“You are so brilliant,” Eliza says. “You’re much smarter than those stuffy business men.”

“ _Mom._ ” He covers his face with his hands, groaning, drags his fingers down his cheeks. “I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time, even when that friend of Burr’s — Van Ness — helps me. How could I think I can be a successful lawyer if I can’t even handle memos and cataloguing? And then there’s _this_ —,” he says, gesturing to the book and papers on his desk. “No matter how much I study for the bar, I can’t remember everything. Most of this is incomprehensible. Pops must’ve been insane when he wrote these notes to study from. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under to pass. If I fail, it will humiliate my father. He’d be so ashamed of me, and it’ll prove that I’m just the inferior version of him.”

Eliza thought that their children would be inspired by Alexander’s success, but Al is discouraged. It never occurred to her how dark it must be to live in Alexander’s shadow. Al is _smart_ no matter what he says, and Alexander has high expectations for him because he knows he can meet them. Eliza feels guilty because she’s done the same, constantly telling him how important it is to continue their family’s legacy, without thinking how Al must feel about the whole situation, or if he wants that at all. She and Alexander only want the best for him — and all their children — but what they think is right may not be what’s best for them.

“First of all,” Eliza says, “you could never disappoint me, or your father. And he would have never left you in charge of his legal correspondence if he weren’t sure you’d do well.”

“I was his only option on such short notice.”

“That isn’t true.” Eliza shakes her head when Al opens his mouth to disagree. “You’ve done a wonderful job. Last week, someone was telling me how intelligent and professional you are. He said that he would much rather do business with you than the senior Alexander Hamilton.”

She had been hoping for a smile, but Al is too sad for compliments. His eyes cast downward and he slumps his shoulders.

“I can’t ever be as good as him,” Al says, low, and he doesn’t have to explain who he’s speaking of. “I’ve lost before I’ve even started.”

Eliza resists the urge to hug him and kiss his face until his worries are gone, but he is grown. A _man_. There are some troubles that hugs from his mother won’t solve.

“That isn’t true,” she says. She settles for putting her hand to his face, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. “You’ve accomplished so much already, and you’re still so young.”

 _He’s older than Philip ever was_ , she realizes. They aren’t alike at all. She and Alexander had worried about Philip’s future. He had a rebellious streak and would stay out late and rush to complete his work, but Alexander had said he would be fine because he was the same way when he was that age, and didn’t he turn out all right? Well, Philip _didn’t_ turn out all right. Alexander blamed himself for pushing him too hard, and he backed off demanding so much from the other boys.

Al places his hand over hers, brings it down and holds it in his.

“Pops always tells me that he had less opportunity than me growing up, so things should be easier for me.” Al lowers his voice, as though he’s afraid his father will hear, even though he’s across the ocean. “And I know he’s right, he had a bad childhood and wasn’t privileged like I am, but I’m just so _awkward_ and he’s…he’s smarter than me and more amiable and…and that helps a lot more than anything else _.”_

He is right that Alexander had to struggle to earn his wealth and social standing, but not about much else. Eliza gives Al a small smile and says, “Your father also has had an incredible amount of luck. But he hasn’t been successful at everything. He’s done some horribly stupid things, too.”

“I guess you’re right,” he says, not needing to mention Alexander’s mistake they’re both thinking of. He sighs. “But, still. I feel like he thinks I’m not good enough.”

“Why would you ever think that?” Eliza asks, and she does kiss him this time, on his forehead where he’s holding his worry. “Your father is so proud of you.”

“He’s never said so.” Al shrugs. “Not since I was a kid.”

“He doesn’t?” He must not be listening when Alexander says it, or maybe he shows it in a different way…

Al sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you this because I know you already have a lot to worry about, but I have nobody else to talk to.”

“Don’t you talk to Theo?” Eliza knows they do — she sees them whispering to each other in the corners of rooms and in the garden. Al was sweet on her at one time, but it seems like they are just good friends. Maybe he knows the secret about Theo and Angie… “I know you two are close.”

Al blushes bright red, just like his father does when put on the spot. “Why would you say that?” he asks, his voice rising and not concealing anything at all. “We are just friends. Did Theo say something? Did mister Burr say something?”

Eliza smiles. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Regardless,” Eliza says, changing the subject to spare Al’s embarrassment, “you don’t have to be a lawyer if you don’t want to. Your father will get over it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Al doesn’t look like he believes her. “Really?”

“Really.”

He sits up straighter, brave. “Then…I don’t want to get married.”

Eliza laughs. “I was teasing you about Theo. I don’t expect you to marry her.”

“No, I meant…anyone.” Al furrows his brows. “I don’t want…to do any of that.”

“You’re still young,” Eliza says, because he _is_ young; it’s difficult to think of one of her children getting married. “You’ll change your mind when you meet someone special.”

Al makes a face. “I guess.” He looks over to his pile of papers on his desk. “I couldn’t marry now anyway, because I’m too busy.”

Eliza knows when he wants to end a conversation. She stands and kisses his forehead. “Don’t study too hard.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

He’s a good boy. Life will work out for him.

 

* * *

 

Alexander’s sends her letters, words and words and words about how he misses her and loves her and wishes he were with her. She knows that he’s dreadfully miserable without his family — his writing is too clear to hide it. It has a sadness that no fancy phrase can hide. He writes about how he and Burr are getting along and how nice it is to have a break, but he’d much rather be at home with all his loved ones. He hasn’t forgotten her.

She doesn’t know why she feared that he would. This reassurance should comfort her, but instead — she’s angry. How could he love her that much, and yet…

 

* * *

 

“I know,” Eliza says to Theo one day, when they are alone. They’re outside, hanging clothes to dry. Theo had offered to help without asking. She’s _good_ , despite Eliza trying to find any reason to dislike her.

Theo takes her time pinning a shirt to the line, then hides behind it. “What do you know?”

Evasive, just like her father. Eliza steps around to the other side and hangs up one of her petticoats. She speaks as though they were discussing the weather. “I know that you’re in love with Angie.”

“I adore all of your children.”

“Theo, please do me the courtesy of not treating me like I’m an idiot.”

Theo pauses, meets Eliza’s eyes, and then drops the stockings she was holding into the basket. “I apologize.” She frowns. “Who told you?”

“Alexander did.” Eliza can’t help but smile when Theo rolls her eyes. “If I paid attention, I would have figured it out anyway. It’s obvious you and Angie like each other.”

Theo doesn’t drop her gaze from hers. “Do you think I’m vile?”

“Never,” Eliza says, then adds, “and I’d be a hypocrite if I accepted Alexander and your father, but not you and Angie.”

Theo gives her a confused look, like she doesn’t know what Eliza is talking about. She is clever, Eliza has to give her that. “I know your father discusses his…personal affairs with you.”

“He’s told me about his amorous relationship with mister Hamilton,” Theo says, impassive. “Is that what you meant?”

Eliza finds herself blushing. “Yes.” She clears her throat. “Who knows about you and Angie?”

“You,” Theo says, listing them on her fingers. “Mister Hamilton. Al. And my father knows now, I suppose, because I sent a letter with mister Hamilton to deliver to him in person.”

Eliza nods. She picks up one of Rita’s tiny outfits from the basket and hangs it on the line.

“I admit, I had my misgivings,” she begins, and Theo stands there, listening, “but you’re good for my daughter. You make her happy, and that’s all I could wish for her, because I used to think she would never be happy again.” She smiles at Theo. “And you’re happier with her, too.”

“Yes,” Theo says, dreamy.

Eliza knows that love-struck expression.

Love could never be a bad thing.

Eliza touches her shoulder. “Seeing you girls in love makes me happy,” she says, but then, serious, “but if you hurt her in any way, I’ll be forced to change my opinion of you.”

“I would hope that you would.” Theo smiles. “But that will never happen.”

“Good.”

They go back to hanging the laundry in silence. When they’ve finished, Theo picks up the basket to take back into the house. She has an amused expression, like she thinks something is funny, and when Eliza looks at her, she laughs.

“You are more intimidating than mister Hamilton,” Theo says.

Eliza grins, and then leans in, as though they are sharing a secret. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Theo is much more sociable that evening. It’s like she belongs with their family.

 

* * *

 

“Your father will be home soon,” Eliza tells Rita, as she rocks her after a feeding. She likes to tell her nice things about Alexander. She did this with their other babies when he would be away from them. “He loves you so much. He works hard to make sure you’ll have a good life. He’s a lot of fun.”

“And he’s a bit dim,” Angelica says. “But we don’t fault him for that.”

“ _Angelica_ ,” Eliza says, scolding, and covers Rita’s ears, as though the she understands what she’s saying. Who says babies don’t understand?

Angelica sighs, and sits next to Eliza. “I didn’t say he isn’t wonderful.” She looks at Rita, who makes a baby _goo!_ sound.

Eliza smooths down Rita’s hair. It’s started to curl like some of her siblings’ hair. She loves watching her children grow up and become a perfect mix of her and Alexander.

“But that Burr, though,” Angelica says. “He’s not so wonderful.”

“He’s actually really good with the kids.” Eliza feels warm. Stupid Aaron Burr who looks so _cute_ holding her baby. She could hate him for how he tried to be discreet when he looked at her half-uncovered chest — she had purposely left her top unfastened, to see if he would look, and he _had_ , and instead of feeling offended it had made her…delighted. Stupid Aaron Burr for moving in and staying until she got used to him being there. _Damn_ his stupid, charming, handsome self…

She wipes away a tear. Damn her emotions getting the better of her.

“Why are you upset?” Angelica asks. “You don’t want to be pregnant _again_ , do you?”

“ _What?_ No.” But she wouldn’t mind if she did, because then she could see Alexander and Burr be sweet with another baby. “I just…I miss Alexander.”

That’s all.

 

* * *

 

She always seems to be waiting for Alexander. It never gets any easier.

This waiting isn’t much different than waiting for him to come home from the war. She knows he will come home alive, but she isn’t sure if he will be the same. She’s afraid that he will be hurt by something that cannot heal — something worse than a bullet wound that left him crippled — and she hates that she’s kind of worried that Burr will be hurt, too.

But then a letter from Alexander’s arrives that says that they — both of them — are coming _home,_ and he’s missed her so much and he can’t wait to see her again.

She cries. She cries big, heaving sobs that stream down her face and shake her shoulders and makes her feel sick. She cries so much that Angelica thinks something is wrong and she takes Alexander’s letter to read it herself.

“Oh, you’re happy he’s coming home,” Angelica says, and Eliza hugs her so she doesn’t have to talk, because she can’t say why she’s really upset — that she’s afraid of what happens next.

 

* * *

 

Angelica leaves a few days before Alexander — and Burr — are due to arrive. She’s still mad with Burr for dueling with her husband, and for dueling with Alexander, and for being unpleasant in general, but Eliza thinks her reasoning is mostly that she doesn’t want to be there with Alexander returns. Eliza knows that Angelica has always loved Alexander more than she should, which makes Angelica too furious to deal with him, sometimes.

It never would have worked out with Alexander and Angelica. They are too alike, in the worst of ways.

Eliza is sad to see her go, back home to her own life with her boring husband. She’s never envied her sister’s life, but…sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be married to someone unexciting. She would have a lot less worries, but it would be so dreadfully dull.

She wouldn’t trade her life for anything, even with the bad parts.

She waits for Alexander, because he always comes back to her.

 

* * *

 

And Alexander is in her arms and promising that he’ll never leave her for so long again, he’s so _so_ sorry, and he’s crying and is a mess but he is _here_.

He doesn’t seem to be any different. His kisses leave her just as breathless and he says _I love you_ like he always has. What was she worrying about?

Then she sees that Alexander left Burr sad and lonely by the carriage, and she realizes that’s what she was worried about. Someone has to lose.

While Alexander is busy with the children, she goes over to Burr. He’s smiling now that Theo is fussing over him, but he keeps glancing over to Alexander.

She doesn’t know why she does it, but she kisses Burr on the cheek. She knows Alexander is looking, but she figures that if Alexander can kiss him, she can too.

Burr stands there transfixed, touching where he kissed her. It’s nice to know she can put him into a state of shock with just a simple, chaste kiss. Alexander must think his befuddlement is adorable as well, because he comes over smiling fondly at both of them. He holds out his hands, taking Eliza’s in one and Burr’s in the other, and they are connected with him in the middle. He has everything he wants.

Burr is just as happy, until he meets Eliza’s gaze — he had been trying to avoid it — and he looks how she feels. Unsure.

 

* * *

 

Alexander goes around expressing affection for everything he missed. His study. The view from the dining room window. The stair that squeaks. His cabbages that managed to not die while he was gone.

“I think they fared better without you,” Theo comments.

She adores Theo Burr and her candidness.

Alexander quickly changes the subject, saying he and Burr need to settle in. The pair goes upstairs to the bedrooms, talking low and secretive.

Or maybe it isn’t secretive, and Eliza is being paranoid and silly. She has nothing to be jealous about.

Right?

She follows them in case they need help…  Okay, she might be snooping, just a bit, but she’s curious how they plan to navigate their relationship. She assumes they plan to continue it, even though Alexander never said anything about it to her. They didn’t discuss what he was going to do _after_ he went to win back Burr.

They didn’t waste time secluding themselves. They’re in her and Alexander’s bedroom with the door closed, which makes Eliza unreasonably mad. She figures that they have nothing to hide from her because she _knows_ about them, but when she puts her hand on the doorknob she hears something that makes her pause.

Someone is giggling and it isn’t Alexander, so has to be Burr. Aaron Burr, the most stoic man to exist, is _giggling_.

She presses her ear to the door. Faint voices are on the other side—

“Stop it, Alex,” says Burr, still giggling, but it stops, and Eliza guesses it’s because his mouth is otherwise occupied.

“It’s my house,” Alexander says. “I’ll kiss you wherever I wish.”

“Any…where?”

“Aaron Burr! I meant any room, but I’ll kiss _you_ anywhere too, just tell me where and I'll gladly put my lips on it—”

Eliza has heard enough.

She doesn’t knock before entering — it’s her house too — and she catches them with their lips kissed red and wet and Alexander with his hand working its way into Burr’s breeches. Seriously? They had months together to do all of that, and they can’t restrain themselves for one afternoon?

Men.

It’s quite enlightening to see them, together. It makes her feel something she can’t identify. She isn’t upset, like she thought she might be. She knew what they were doing. It’s more interesting to see their reactions. She thinks Alexander is ashamed of being caught, but she realizes he’s just plain embarrassed. He removes his hand from Burr’s breeches and shoves it in his pocket like it’s too obscene to be left out in the open. Burr, however, doesn’t seem to mind at all, but is actually amused. He straightens his clothes where they seem a bit tighter in the front than they were earlier, but he remains as nonchalant as ever.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” he says, and then leaves her alone with Alexander.

She waits until the door is closed to speak. “You didn’t have to stop because of me.” Why hide it when she knows about it? Unless there is something they _are_ hiding—

“Uh.” Alexander stares at her, like he’s trying to figure out what she _wants_ him to say. Eliza lets him struggle, and after an uncomfortably long time he says a vague, “Sorry?”

Eliza kisses him, which makes him even more confused — he lets out a surprised sound, taken aback — but he doesn’t take it for granted and kisses her back. He opens his mouth and licks at hers and it’s much more passionate than the one they shared on the front lawn. He wraps his arms around her, puts one hand at her back to keep her close while the other slides down and rests low on her hip — the hand that he had been rubbing on Burr not minutes earlier, and then she realizes that he had kissed Burr with that mouth, too.

He whines when she pulls away and he leans in to steal another kiss, but she puts her hand against his chest to keep him at bay.

“Take a bath before dinner,” she tells him, serious, because he smells…not great, but she runs her hand down his chest and changes to a seductive tone, “You dirty boy.”

Alexander bites his lip and has that saucy look he gets when he’s feeling extra randy. “ _Oh,_ madam Hamilton—”

She gives his bottom a pat. “Go.”

He huffs. “Fine,” he says, and he goes to do as she said, but not before quickly putting his lips to hers and kissing her, that sneak. She feels him smile and whisper, “Gotcha.”

“Yes,” she replies, because she will always be his, no matter what. Nothing has changed between them. They could be apart for a lifetime and still pick up where they left off. That is love.

 

* * *

 

Nothing has changed — Alexander doesn’t love her any less — but he is different.

She expected him to be. People change. _She’s_ changed. Alexander is usually so incredibly clear to her that she knows him almost as well as she knows herself, but…he’s being withdrawn. She doesn’t know if it’s on purpose or if he’s protective of feelings he doesn’t want to share with her, but whatever it is, she wants to draw it out from him.

She sits next to him while he bathes, helping him wash off. He lets her do it, relaxing in the warm water while she scrubs his chest with a cloth until his skin is tinted pink and the filth of travel is washed away. It isn’t a hardship. She likes doing something nice for her husband, especially when they haven’t had time together. And this is likely the only alone time they’ll have until later in the evening.

Alexander pushes her hair over her shoulder so it won’t get wet, and then he kisses her cheek. “Thank you, Betsey.”

He even _looks_ different. His hair is longer and she would have taken the scissors to it by now for a good trim, but he has let it grow out past his shoulders. And he’s thinner, too, around the middle and his face and chest are more narrow. He’s always been a bit scrawny, even when muscular as a soldier, but she worries over him.

“Were you unwell?” she asks, touching where he’s lost some of his softness.

“Seasickness discourages eating. Plus, desserts and beer are hard to come by on a ship.” He grins. “But Burr made sure I was okay. He took care of me.”

Eliza’s eyes roam from Alexander’s face and down his body, looking at what she’s been avoiding. He’s all marked up with _love bites_. Purplish kissed bruises on his neck and chest and stomach and there are some on his thighs, too. All of them put there by Burr. She thinks of Burr giving them to him, carefully selecting the next place to adorn his body, claiming that area as his.

“I’ve noticed he attended to you well,” she says, and he realizes what she’s _looking_ at, and then tucks his knees and wraps his arms around legs, folding in on himself. Withdrawn.

“There wasn’t much else for us to do.” He’s _blushing._ Is he ashamed? No. Shy. Her Alexander, _shy._

“You like being with him.” She doesn’t bother asking it as a question.

He can’t meet her eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

She lays her finger on one of the lover’s bruises on his collarbone. It’s a deeper shade than the rest. Recent, probably given to him the night before.

“I want you to say the truth.”

Alexander sighs. “You knew I am attracted to him. What do you think happened between us?”

“I don’t know,” Eliza says. “I’m just a woman.”

“Eliza, don’t.”

He finally looks at her, and he is near tears. Good. He _should_ be upset. He should be held accountable that he was gone finding himself with his new lover, while she stayed home and worried.

“Are you too ashamed to tell me?” she asks. “Or do you just not want to tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I thought…I thought you wouldn’t want to know.”

“I want to know.” God help her, but she does. Knowing is better than whatever else she could think of. “I want to know the details — that you want to share, anyway.”

“We were intimate. Obviously.” Alexander puts his legs down, showing off his body. He’s attractive, he always has been. Eliza likes to run her hands down his stomach, and then lower, wrapping around his hardness.

She thinks of Burr doing the same. Did he find all the places Alexander likes to be touched? Did he find new places she has never discovered?

“Rubbing against each other is fun. We did a lot of that.” He licks his lips. “I took him in my mouth.”

Eliza’s pulse quickens. “Was… _it_ nice?”

“Very,” he says. “I forgot how a man tastes.”

He’s lost in a dreamy expression, like he thinks the taste of a man is _good._ Eliza won’t argue with him about it, because if she said anything against it Alexander would take offense because she’s only had his member in her mouth.

“What else?” She wants to know every way he touched him, she wants to know how he made him _feel_ —

“It took a while but he, um.” Alexander goes shy again, blushing and looking away for a moment. Eliza counts the pause between his last word and the next. “He did the same for me.”

Huh. She didn’t expect that from Burr. She closes her eyes to imagine it — Burr getting on his knees, flashing those dark eyes as he closes his lips around Alexander—

“I’m sure you coerced him into it,” Eliza says. Alexander does love fellatio. It’s not her favorite thing to do, but she does like seeing how overwhelmed with pleasure he gets when she sucks on him.

“I did not,” Alexander says. “Burr was begging for it. Very enthusiastic. He choked on it a bit the first time.”

“I’m sure,” she says, dismissive. She trails her fingers on his neck, brushing against another one of those bruises Burr gave him, then travels down his body. He shivers. “But you wanted him to, didn’t you?”

“I was aching for it, _oh_ —”

She presses a bit too hard on the mangled scar on his side. There’s a bruise on top of it, like Burr had gave it extra attention with his mouth.

“Do you like him better?”

“What? No!” Alexander shouts, aghast. He slams his hand into the water, splashing Eliza. Like he’s hurt that she would say that about him. “Why would you think that?”

Eliza almost laughs. She can’t take him very seriously while he’s angry and sitting naked in a tub of soapy water.

“It’s fine if he’s better,” Eliza says. “You can prefer him over your wife, the mother of your children. I know my body isn’t the same after I have a baby, so if you need something more to get off—”

“Eliza, you’re being unreasonable. You know I don’t think that.”

She leans in and kisses him, rough.

“Wash up,” she tells him. “You smell like another man’s come.”

Alexander blinks, shocked — she doesn’t talk like that, but she’s had enough. She knows she’s being petty and unreasonable. She asked for the truth, and he gave it to her — and she gave him permission to do it. He didn’t give any indication that he does prefer Burr to her, but the way he looks when he talks about him…

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he apologizes at the same time, and after a second of looking at each other, they laugh.

Alexander takes her hand and kisses where the pads of her fingers are wrinkly from the water. “I don’t want us to fight about Aaron Burr.”

“I don’t want us to fight at all.” Alexander kisses her palm, and lays his face against it. “I wasn’t complete without you. I missed you every second we were apart. You were always on my mind.”

 _Were you thinking of me when you had Burr in your mouth?_ she thinks, but decides against asking it. She doesn’t think she’d like his response, no matter what it is. Either he didn’t think of her, or he thought about her while going down on Burr, and she can’t decide which is worse.

“Me too,” she says. It’s honest. Part of being with Alexander is learning to miss him, which is almost as beautiful as loving him.

 

* * *

 

She leaves him to finish bathing because he told her she’s _too distracting_ , and she’s so distracted about him that she nearly runs into Burr. She puts her hands against his chest to keep them from colliding and he’s solid and warm and nice and she’s distracted about _that_ so much that it takes a moment to think of why Burr has been lurking in the hallway.

Right. He lives here. She had forgotten. And it was partly her idea for him to move in.

Burr takes a step back to put a polite distance between them. Smiles. “I was waiting for Alexander to finish so I could bathe as well.”

“He should be done soon.” Eliza looks at him, poised, not betraying any of the ill will she may have for him. “You can go in. Perhaps he needs to be tended to.”

A muscle in Burr’s cheek twitches, but that is his only reaction. The man does have a certain amount of ice running through his veins.

“I have seen enough of Alexander recently,” he says. “I can wait.”

They stare at each other, waiting for one of them to do something. Eliza quickly gives up because she knows that Burr is so stubborn that he would probably stand there until he dies before he says anything, but when she turns her back to go, he speaks—

“He really does love you.”

She stops, faces him. He’s unreadable, as always, but he’s fighting something — annoyance? jealousy? — his eyes are hard and dark, his mouth purposely into a straight line, and really, his expression shows what he’s feeling the more and more she looks at him.

“Why are you telling me this?” She doesn’t need to be told what she already knows, but Burr keeps getting in their business.

“He missed you,” Burr says, because he is like Alexander and doesn’t know when it’s best to be quiet. “Some days, he was inconsolable and laid in bed, crying about missing his family.”

That makes her feel better, but also terrible. Her poor Alexander, sad and alone…

“May I give you my opinion?” Burr asks.

“I have the feeling you will anyway.”

“I think you’re being unfair to Alexander.”

Eliza laughs, surprised. “Excuse me?”

That twitch in his cheek shows again. “You gave him your blessing to do whatever he wanted to do with me,” he says. “And then you encouraged me to do the same. He isn’t concealing anything. You can’t condemn him for it when you pressured him to seek it out.”

“And?” she asks, because it sounds like he wants to say more but is afraid to do so without her permission.

“…but you can still be upset about it.”

Of course she can still be upset. She _is_ upset. Everyone has benefited from this situation except her, and nobody has bothered to ask if she needed something more than knowing that they are happy.

“I don’t need any morality lessons from you,” she snaps, rude, and stomps off — even ruder.

Alexander is in their room, bare. He looks up when she enters and goes to cover himself with a shirt, but then when he sees it’s her he lets himself show. Unashamed of his body like always. He looks good, all curves and angles, his bits hanging between his legs. Her husband.

He tilts his head when she locks the door behind her. His hair is wet and dripping down his back and over the curve of his ass and he’s beautiful and she _wants_ him.

He realizes this when she takes his face between her hands and brings him into a desperate kiss. He lets out an, “oh,” and he drops the shirt he had been holding and grabs her waist instead. It doesn’t feel right for her to be fully clothed while he’s not, so she pulls away from him and starts to undress — first her dress, then begins to undo the many laces of what she wears underneath. Eager, Alexander assists, kissing her and telling her things like, “I’m sorry,” and, “I love you,” and, “Missed you.”

And soon, she is as bare as him. He looks her over, trails his hands down her curves. “You are more beautiful than the last time I saw you,” he says and she blushes and tells him to _stop that,_ but she cups her hand over his delicate parts and he grunts and backs her up to the bed — _their_ bed, and he lays her down carefully, like she is something precious to him. He joins her, spreading his body on top of hers and kissing her as he goes down, her nipple, her stomach, the mound near where she’s throbbing for touch.

“Please?” he asks, and since he asked so nicely — she places her feet flat and spreads her legs wide so she is exposed to him. He makes a hungry sound and puts his mouth to her, spreading her apart with his fingers and diving in. He doesn’t bother with teasing at all and it’s almost too much and she has to tap his head to tell him to slow down because she can’t form a single word while he licks at her. She wraps his wet hair in her grip, lightly tugs when he eases one finger inside and crooks it exactly where it needs to be, and she finds herself reaching her peak all too soon.

Being with Alexander has always been easy. On their wedding night she had been the blushing bride but he made her feel comfortable, and it wasn’t terrible at all like Angelica told her would be. She thinks it’s because they were made for each other. It’s still like that — he still makes her feel just as pretty, even though her body has changed after going through pregnancy many times. He likes kissing the shiny marks on her stomach from when her body grew too fast to accommodate their children, and he still loves her breasts even though they aren’t as perky as they used to be. It’s easy to love him and it’s easy to trust him, even when she’s been burned by him.

She’s mad at herself for doubting that he wanted her any less.

She wonders if Burr thinks it’s easy to be with him. Something tells her it isn’t.

“Hello,” Alexander says, lying on top of her. She had been lost to her thoughts and he is neglected, needy. He’s hard against her thigh and he presses his face to her neck and breathes in deep. She runs her hand down his spine, then reaches between them and takes him in her hand and moves her hips and he does the rest — placing himself at her opening and pushing inside.

It’s a stretch after months of only her fingers, but she likes the feeling of her body yielding to his. He groans as he fills her, pulls out slightly to go in again deeper, until he’s all the way. She wraps her legs around him, she wants him as badly as he does, and he slowly rocks into her, lavishing her with kisses on her face, her neck, the valley between her breasts. His gentle rocking turns into frantic thrusts, quickly chasing his orgasm. She feels another one coming on fast for her, too — usually she needs more, but sometimes this is enough, when she’s so wet he has a hard time not sliding out and she feels herself quivering inside when this thickness breaches her. He seems determined to hold off until they can come together, so she gives into that pleasure teetering on the edge where Alexander is inside her, and she gasps and clenches down on him, and with a moan he muffles in her chest, he follows.

He spills inside her — he always does because he’s too selfish or careless to deny himself, and because they don’t really mind the chance at creating another life. She likes it when he does, and she likes it when he slumps on top of her when he’s done, too tired to move.

“I love you, sweetheart,” she says, because Alexander needs to be told that he’s loved, and often. She guesses it has something to do with his past. She’s never known anyone to be as sensitive as him. She loves him for it. That makes him special. Hers.

He rolls off her and on to his side, but curls around her, as though he can’t stand to not be touching her. “I love you, too.”

They lie like that for a while, enjoying being together again. She loves him, and that’s why she decides that she needs to accept whatever it is that Alexander has with Burr. That’s what a lot of marriage is. Compromises to make the other happy. Let Alexander — and Burr — have this happiness. Alexander has a lot of compassion to share. She is happy as long as she has something that Burr cannot have: the primary place in Alexander’s heart.

 

* * *

 

Eliza feels better, until dinner.

Alexander and Burr make an effort to talk with everyone, but Eliza doesn’t miss their lingering glances across the table, and then they notice her noticing _them_ , and they look away, which makes it all the more obvious they had been focused only on each other.

She feels like she’s intruding. Even more so when they try to explain something funny they saw in London, but then they shrug and say, “I guess you had to be there yourself.”

“I guess so.” Eliza jabs her fork a little to hard on the plate. Theo gives her a sympathetic smile.

They finish their meal and dessert and there is an awkward moment where the three of them — Eliza, Alexander, Burr — are silently figuring out who Alexander will go with. Eventually, Alexander pushes out his chair, stands and stretches.

“I’ll go have a nightcap with Burr, then I’ll join you for bed, Eliza,” Alexander says. “I am quite tired.”

Eliza looks over to Burr, and it feels kind of victorious that his unwavering resolve flickers a little. She hopes her expression says what she’s thinking — _you might get him for a moment, but he chose my bed to lie in_ — but then she realizes that is terribly smug and she should apologize because this isn’t a competition, but she doesn’t get a chance because out of nowhere, one of the children begin to wail.

William jumps up from his seat and runs after Alexander and throws his arms around his middle and clings to him, all while sobbing so hard Eliza can’t understand what he’s saying, but it becomes obvious why he’s upset when he points to Burr and says, “No!”

Burr takes an awkward step away as Eliza rushes to William and Alexander’s side. Eliza shushes him and tries to dry his tears with a handkerchief but he wiggles away and tugs Alexander’s arm. “Stay away from him, Pops!”

“William, don’t be rude,” Alexander scolds, but William shakes his head.

“I don’t care. He _hurt_ you.” William glances over to Burr, as though to make sure he isn’t near him. He looks _terrified_. How didn’t Eliza notice? He had mentioned he blamed Burr for Alexander leaving, but he didn’t seem afraid. She should have noticed, but she was too occupied with observing every interaction between the men. William was silent all through dinner — as always — and demanded to sit next to Alexander, but she thought he was excited that his father was back. He is a quiet child, which makes this outburst even more surprising.

“It isn’t like that. We…” Alexander’s voice trails off, like he’s trying to think of how to explain the complexities of dueling. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“How is it a misunderstanding?” William asks. “I’m eight, not stupid. He _shot_ you. I remember! We all came to your bedside and you couldn’t move for weeks. And _he_ did it,” and again, points a small, accusatory finger towards Burr.

Some things are so simple to children. Eliza wishes she could see things as unequivocally as them.

Alexander sighs. “But I’m okay now, aren’t I? Burr and I are friends. He might be a little grumpy but he isn’t scary. Isn’t that right?” he asks, turning to Burr.

Burr doesn’t say anything at all. He would probably be out of the room if the other kids weren’t blocking the door, muttering to each other.

William tears have slowed, but new ones sprout up when he sees Alexander looking at Burr. “You were sad when he left, but everything was going to be fine. He wouldn’t be around anymore and couldn’t hurt you, but then you left us and—” He pauses to hug Alexander tighter. “—and then I was so scared that he might try to hurt you again. But then you brought him back with you and I wish you left him so he couldn’t hurt you.”

Alexander looks to Eliza for help. She rubs circles on William’s back but he keeps softly crying into Alexander’s coat.

“May I speak?”

The trio of Hamiltons turn to Burr, who stands at a respectable distance away with his hands behind his back. He kneels so he is a lower level than William.

“William Hamilton,” Burr says, “I am very sorry that happened between me and your father. But I promise that I will never hurt him, ever again.”

William shies away from him, but he listens.

Burr continues, “I will never hurt your mother, or you, or any of your brothers or sisters.” He smiles. “I want you to be able to trust me.”

 _Because I’m going to be around,_ goes unsaid.

William sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. He looks up at Alexander, then Eliza. “Do you trust him, Mama?”

That’s a good question. She knows Burr would never mortally wound Alexander again because Burr has nearly killed himself with grief over it, but does she trust Burr to do the right thing? She doesn’t know.

But she wants to find out.

“Yes,” she says, and then smiles at Burr, warm. “I think mister Burr is great.”

Burr makes a face like she’s offended him greatly, whereas Alexander just seems to be glad a crying kid isn’t hanging on his sleeve anymore.

She can see William thinking it over, his frowning with eyebrows furrowed together — that is such an _Alexander_ look — but then he brightens, and he looks more like her.

“Okay then,” William says. “I trust you. I’m sorry I was mean. I know you and my Pops used to be angry with each other, but now you’re good friends and wouldn’t do anything to hurt each other. I was just worried.”

“You had good reason to be,” Burr says. “Always say something if you don’t feel safe.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alexander ruffles his hair. “Why don’t I tuck you in?” he asks, and William whines all the way down the hall with Alexander, trying to negotiate a later bedtime.

With the drama over, the other kids disperse, and Burr and Eliza are left alone in the dining room.

“I’m sorry I distressed your child,” Burr says. “I don’t want to be a problem.”

Eliza scoffs. “It’s a little too late for that,” she says, but when Burr looks dejected she adds, “but it’s also a problem if you aren’t here.”

Burr sighs. “I didn’t leave expecting him to follow me,” he says. “I had planned to stay in Europe for a couple years, alone. I thought he’d send a few angry letters, but then he would eventually get over it. Me. But then he forced himself back into my life, and I’ve had to deal with these—these _feelings_ and I…”

His sentence fades off. Eliza thinks he doesn’t know what to say. Alexander is so confident with his attraction to men, but from what Alexander has told her, this is a new thing for Burr. He rubs the back of his neck and looks away from her, as though he’s embarrassed at how fragile and hurt he’s revealing himself to be, and that’s when Eliza realizes that she has been wrong about three things.

First — Burr isn’t her rival. Second — she doesn’t hate him, not at all. And three — she feels bad for him.

“I shouldn’t, but I like you a lot, Aaron Burr.” Eliza touches his shoulder, and he looks as disoriented from it as he did when she kissed him on the cheek. She does like him. She likes how he’s good with her kids and she likes that he makes Alexander happy, she likes that he has a romantic side but tries to pretend he’s a curmudgeon and deserves nothing good in the world, and she likes that they have Alexander as a commonality between them.

She touches his face, and tells him, “You deserve happiness, too.”

She leaves him to figure that out on her own. She’s has spent too much time and effort making sure their lives are in order. It’s time to focus on herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real notes for this chapter? Just that I love Eliza.


	24. Alexander XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long day.

By the time Alexander convinces William to wash his face and get into bed, reads him _two_ stories because the kid is exploiting being distressed, reassures him that it’s _fine_ and he will be there in the morning, and waits for him to fall asleep before leaving the room, he’s exhausted.

It’s been a long day.

Home has granted him a serenity his restless soul had been missing. He likes Burr, and their time together in London is fun and what they both needed, however…he doesn’t complete him. Alexander needs his family, too. He can’t leave things behind, unlike Burr — Burr can’t admit that he needs something, like it makes him weak. But Alexander couldn’t live without his family, and he couldn’t live without Burr, so they came home. Everything was going to be fine, Burr _promised_. He thought it would. Hoped.

But this is his home. Where James and John were roughhousing and ran into the wall and dented it. Where all his children are under the same roof. Where the carpet is faded from sunlight let in from the windows. Where he’s spent his best days, and his worst. Where he made a place to belong…

It’s his home. And Burr has become part of it.

He passes Eliza on the stairs, who is carrying a very sleepy Phil on her hip. He’s too big to be carried, but he was the baby for so long that he’s spoiled, just a bit.

“Hey.” Alexander brushes curls away from Phil’s face. “Someone’s sleepy.”

“I’m not tired,” Phil says, but he yawns and rests his head on Eliza’s shoulder. His eyelids close for a moment before he opens them again, fighting sleep.

“If you say so,” Eliza says, used to their children’s stubbornness. She puts a hand to the back of Phil’s head, protective, and his eyes flutter shut and in an instant, gives in to sleep, safe in his mother’s arms.

Tears sting Alexander’s eyes. Eliza’s motherly tendencies always make him sentimental. His children are blessed to grow up with such a wonderful mother — they will never know what it’s like to be alone and unloved.

And because of her, he will never be alone and unloved again. He never thought that someone could love him, as impoverished and flawed as he is. He never thought he would have a family, or anything stable — he never thought he would live this long.

How did he get so lucky?

Eliza looks at him, curiously. “Are you okay?” she asks. It’s her way of asking _what’s wrong?_ without directly asking. She knows that if he wants to share, he will. She’s familiar with Alexander’s waves of emotion — how they crash suddenly, or how they recede away as if they were never there.

“I’m great, now that I’m home.” He _is_ great, except…

He kisses her so she stops looking so worriedly at him, and kisses Phil’s cheek. “You better put him to bed.”

“He wanted to see you before he went to sleep,” she says quietly, and Alexander kind of feels like shit again. His kids missed him terribly, and he went off to England chasing cock. Uh, for Burr’s companionship.

He knows that Eliza notices his guilt, because she just gives him that condemnatory look like she thinks he _should_ feel bad, and she doesn’t even have to say a single word to make her point. Her arched brow and her half-smirk, half-frown says it all. But she doesn’t let him suffer it for long because only a few seconds are effective — she brightens, and moves on.

She looks to where Phil is sleeping against her shoulder, and then to Alexander. “Did you get William settled?”

“Yeah. He didn’t talk about it anymore. It was like it didn’t even happen.” How quickly children forgive, and forget.

Eliza nods, and then she has that serious look again. “There’s someone else who needs to be talked down.”

She stares at him for a moment until he realizes who she means.

“Oh, _him._ ”

“Yes, _him_ ,” Eliza says, keeping her voice low so she won’t wake Phil. She shifts her hips. “If Aaron Burr is going to be in our house, I won’t have him moping around like a heartsick teenager.”

“He isn’t heartsick. He’s…” Alexander searches for the words, because it surely isn’t _heartsick._ “Awkward around crowds.”

Yes, that’s it. Burr isn’t accustomed to being pleasant with a large group of people, and the Hamilton family does constitute as a crowd.

Eliza rolls her eyes.

“Go,” she says, “or must I resort to treating you two like children and force you to sort out your own problems?”

“Eliza—“

“ _Go_ ,” she says through gritted teeth, and she hurries up the stairs before he has the chance to ask her what to do.

She really is the one who holds their family together.

 

* * *

 

Eliza didn’t need to tell him that Burr is moping, because Burr always broods when something doesn’t go his way. Sometimes he broods even when he has what he wants. Burr just wants a reason to be miserable.

Alexander considers not taking Eliza’s suggestion and leaving Burr alone because he doesn’t want to have this conversation with him and Burr because doesn’t need to be consoled about every perceived injustice, but then he remembers they’re supposed to be communicating if they intend to make _this_ work. He still wants it — if Burr does, too — which he assumes Burr does, hence the moping.

Alexander searches the house in all the usual places Burr frequents when he’s in a _mood_ — his room, the secluded corner of the library, with Theo. He’s nowhere to be found and Alexander is about to worry that he left him _again_ , but he finds Burr at the last place he looks — outside on the front porch, smoking and sitting on a bench with Cleo in his lap.

Burr hasn’t moved and is looking up at the stars. Alexander stands back, watching him. It’s dark, with only a quarter moon to illuminate the sky, and the embers of Burr’s cigar casts an orange glow on his face. Alexander recognizes the smell as one of the expensive cigars he bought him in London. He had went around the entire store smelling different varieties of tobacco until he found one he didn’t mind too much. When they left the store he whispered in Burr’s ear, _think of me when you have these in your mouth._

“I know you’re there, Alexander,” Burr says, and how did he know? He hasn’t moved from staring up at the sky but then he answers Alexander’s unasked question, “Only you have a three-beat stride.”

“That’s cheating.” Alexander goes over to Burr, taps his foot with his cane. “Move. I’m tired and need to sit.”

Burr glowers at him like he asked a Herculean task, but he moves a few inches to the side so Alexander can sit next to him. Alexander plops down on the bench, coughing as he inhales some of Burr’s cigar smoke.

Cleo meows — presumably annoyed that he disturbed her rest when he made Burr move — and Alexander expects to be scratched but she just rubs against him and purrs before gracefully jumping on the ground and trotting back into the house.

“I told you we became friends,” Alexander says, but Burr doesn’t respond — he won’t even _look_ at him. It’s going to be hard to communicate when Burr won’t _talk._ Alexander touches his arm. “Burr?”

“What is it, Hamilton?”

It’s cutting and mean, but it’s something. “I was looking for you.”

Burr blows out smoke. It floats into Alexander’s face, and for a moment he can’t see Burr.

“So you do remember me,” Burr says. He goes for apathetic, but he overcompensates and it shows that he’s forcing it. “I thought I was just here to kiss behind closed doors.”

Alexander hates how Burr does that, how he turns things around to make him feel bad. “I’ve been busy catching up with my family. You knew it would be like that. I can’t spend all my time with you.”

Burr looks at him for a moment before turning away from him. “Yes, you’re right. I should have known. Shame on me.”

“ _Burr.”_ Apparently, Alexander can’t do anything right. If he’s too friendly with Burr, Eliza gets hurt, and if he shows someone else attention, Burr feels neglected.

“I’m fine.”

It’s too dark to see Burr’s face, but Alexander knows he has that stoic expression that looks painful. “You aren’t fine. Please tell me.” He leans in closer, talks in his ear. “What’s wrong?”

Burr shrugs him away. “Your kid went berserk, acting like I almost killed his father — oh wait.”

Alexander goes to kiss him — his mouth could find his in the dark — but Burr turns his head away.

Why does he have to make things so difficult? Alexander is willing to forgive the past and he’s the one who got fucking _shot_ , so why can’t Burr forgive himself? It’s like he wants them to fail.

If Alexander hadn’t sworn off dueling, he’d walk ten paces away from Burr and shoot him so they’d be even.

He puts his hand to the side of Burr’s face, forcing him to look at him, pulls him towards him but Burr brings the cigar to his mouth and takes a long inhale, and then lets it out slow.

Alexander lets his hand fall. He gets the message. _Stay back._

“Is William okay?” Burr asks. “Is he traumatized that his father’s consort looms in the house with him, lurking behind corners and ready to strike?”

Burr can be so cruel, it isn’t a mystery that not many people like him. But Alexander knows this is self-deprecation. He always does this when he feels susceptible to being hurt. A defense strategy to tear himself down before someone else can.

“He’s okay, now,” Alexander says. “He’s a sweet kid. I explained the best I could. He knows that you didn’t harm me with malice.”

“But I _did_ intend malice,” Burr replies. “I planned to shoot you, and I did.”

Alexander’s side cramps.

He sighs. “But you regretted it, and that’s what matters. William just didn’t understand what happened between us.”

“I’m not sure if I understand.”

Alexander groans and presses his face to Burr’s shoulder. “Please don’t be like this,” he whispers, “not after…everything.” He kisses Burr’s jaw, light and sweet in a way that he knows makes Burr melt. “ _Burr.”_

Burr pulls away from him.

“Go be with your wife,” Burr says. He extinguishes his cigar on the arm of the bench. “Just don’t forget about me.”

“Never.” Alexander cups his hand to Burr’s cheek. “Please don’t run away.”

“I won’t,” Burr says, and then he looks at him, and…

…his eyes glint in the moonlight.

Alexander kisses him — he won’t let him turn away this time and he doesn’t care if they are seen — he grabs Burr’s lapels and drags him close to him. Burr kisses him back with just as much fervor and _yes_ this is what he wanted, but then Burr tears away from him, their lips making a delicious wet sound and leaving Alexander wanting more.

“Did you think you could kiss me and make it better?” Burr asks. “That as long as we do this—,” he kisses him, briefly, “—it makes it all okay?”

“I crossed an ocean for you,” Alexander says. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

Burr goes quiet, and that’s never good — but then he relaxes against Alexander, wraps his arm around his shoulder, nuzzles his face to his, and he doesn’t have to say _sorry_ because Alexander is powerless for his affections.

“It means something.” Burr doesn’t say _what_ it means — he kisses him lightly, just his lips brushing his. “Go. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“You better,” Alexander says. “Or else I’ll find you.”

“I know,” Burr says, like he doesn’t doubt it at all.

Alexander would. He would cross all the oceans in the world for him.

 

* * *

 

He leaves Burr on the porch looking out at the stars. He knows Burr is going to brood some more — all night long, most likely — but he can’t worry always about Burr.

Eliza is waiting for him in their room. She’s lit more candles than necessary and she’s laid out on the bed with a modest provocativeness. One arm above her head, one across her stomach, her legs slightly apart, and is wearing a thin lacy thing, and then he realizes it’s one of the night dresses he bought for her in London.

It’s better on her than he had fantasized. It hugs her curves and reveals the swell of her breasts, her nipples are visible through the fabric, and just enough leg is shown off to be risqué while remaining modest. Eliza is no Puritan, but she’s reserved about displaying her body — until she isn’t. Alexander knows that she likes showing off, even though she would never admit it because she’s a _lady._

Eliza blushes when she sees Alexander staring at her, but she lifts the gown further up her leg, past her knee and up her thigh and he knows what comes next, but she smiles and moves her hand, covering that sweet spot between her legs.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” Alexander says. “I believe you are teasing me.”

“Mr. Hamilton,” Eliza says, looking him up and down, “I believe you’re wearing too many clothes.”

“You are correct. Astute observation.” He gets rid of those clothes, but takes his time doing so because he can be a tease, too. He hangs up his waistcoat and coat, undoes each loop of his cravat slowly. He removes his shirt and makes a show of taking off his breeches, turning his back to her and bending over exaggeratedly to push them down his hips, over his ass. He peeks around his body to see that she’s staring intently at his backside.

“Enjoying my assets?” he asks, standing upright and patting his rear. He looks over his shoulder and Eliza is still looking at him, somewhat annoyed, but intrigued, like she can hardly contain herself from leaping off the bed to touch him.

If Burr were here, he would have pushed him to the bed by now, he thinks.

But he isn’t here.

Alexander finishes undressing and after a moment of standing naked, he puts on his nightshirt because he isn’t sure where this evening is going, and because Eliza’s gaze lingers too long on the marks Burr made on him with his mouth. She had been so critical about them when she saw them when he was in the bath. He hadn’t felt ashamed of them, until she looked at him like that.

He gets in bed and snuggles up to Eliza, and once he’s lying down he realizes how sleepy he is. He got used to taking naps whenever he wanted while he was away, and even though he’d like to go for a romp, he doesn’t think he could get it up if he tried.

She must be in tune with his dick, because she gets out of bed and blows out all the candles except the one on her nightstand, and then joins him again and pulls the blanket over both of them. He lifts his arm so she can position herself next to him, and they fit perfectly together as they always have — facing each other, his arm around her, hers against his chest, sharing the air between them.

Alexander goes to say something nice, but a jaw-cracking yawn surprises him instead. “Tired.”

“It’s been a bit of a day for you,” Eliza says. She kisses him, thoroughly and wonderful, but not something that has the intention to lead to something else. “And for Aaron, too.”

Alexander groans into his pillow. “Don’t call him _Aaron_. It’s strange.” He’s called Burr that only once, on accident, when he was too sick and distressed to think clearly. Burr uses his given name all the time — and the shorted _Alex_ — but it doesn’t feel right with Burr.

“It’s his name,” Eliza says. “How is Aaron? I know he was upset by what happened after dinner.”

“He’s fine,” Alexander says. Or so he said. “He’s moody and kind of unpleasant to talk to. So, he’s normal.”

“I’m sure he thinks you’re unpleasant to be around sometimes,” Eliza says, stern.

Alexander snorts. “I know he does because he’s told me as much.” Usually right before he kisses him.

“I’m not surprised,” Eliza says. “Were you unpleasant to each other earlier? Were you fighting?”

“No,” Alexander says, then, “Maybe. Not really. We were just talking.”

“You seem upset.”

Alexander is about to say _I’m not_ but he _is_ upset. “We knew that things would change when we came home back to our normal lives, but it would worth it,” he says. “But now that we’re here, he just wants to sulk instead of talking about it, like he expected it to be different… He can be so _good_ to me, Eliza. I can’t let him go.”

She looks pained, and he can’t figure out if it’s because she’s hurt or if she feels sympathy for him. Maybe a bit of both.

“Tell me about him,” Eliza says. “Tell me how the mysterious Aaron Burr charmed you.”

Eliza says she wants to know, but Alexander isn’t sure what to tell her, and he doesn’t know if he should. He wants to tell her _everything_ because hiding it feels deceitful and he wants to share this new thing with her, but he’s afraid there is a limit that can be reached where she’ll say, _no more._

…But then he realizes he’s been dying to tell someone about Burr, shout it from rooftops: _Aaron Burr likes me!_

“He’s thoughtful,” Alexander says, and a smile forms on his face just _talking_ about him. “He doesn’t want to appear thoughtful, or that he cares. He thinks caring makes him vulnerable. I guess it’s because he isn’t used to caring for someone, and someone caring for him in return. When he does something nice for me, he’ll say something mean to balance it out, but I know he doesn’t truly feel that way. It’s how he, uh, flirts.”

“That would feel like mixed signals to me.” Eliza is backlit by candlelight, making her face shadowy, but her skepticism shines brightly. “How are you sure he likes you?”

“He’s told me.” Alexander smiles, thinking of Burr whispering it in his ear. “He calls me _Alex._ He told me things he hasn’t told anyone else. He’s been compassionate and tender. He gave me a foot rub.”

She wrinkles her nose. “…Really?”

Alexander nods. “And it was great,” he says. He sighs. “I know he likes me because he’s willing to accept these uncommon feelings that he carries for me. He would’ve given up on me if he didn’t care. We might argue and can’t stand to be around each other sometimes, but in the end, staying is what matters. Doesn’t it?”

“It matters.”

“I don’t know if he thinks that.”

“Have you asked him?”

“…Not really.” He’s asked around it, but never directly.

Eliza laughs, lightly. “You are both so passionate, but closed off when it’s something important to you.”

“I am not _closed off,”_ Alexander says. “I am the opposite of that.”

“Except when you don’t want to show that you care, because it could lead to you getting hurt.”

“I thought we were talking about Burr, not me.”

Eliza gives him a look. “Alexander. It hasn’t even been a day since you’ve been back. Give him time. He’s probably trying to come to terms but you won’t give him a chance to breathe.”

“I have to,” Alexander says. “If I don’t, I’m afraid he’ll…”

“What?”

“Leave me again.”

“He won’t.”

Alexander doesn’t know how she can promise that.

“He likes you,” Eliza says, “so you better not break his heart.”

“His heart? What about _me_?” Alexander asks, flabbergasted, and Eliza is _laughing_ at him _._ “Why do you care about _Aaron—_ ” he raises his voice on Burr’s name, mocking “—so much? He almost killed me.”

“But he didn’t,” Eliza says, and she shushes him when he opens his mouth to argue. “I’ve decided I like him. He’s a good man, despite his efforts not to appear as such. You can be rather unthinking and dismissive with his feelings. He’s…sensitive.”

Alexander snorts. Burr is about as sensitive as a cactus.

“He _is_ ,” Eliza says, “and you’re a fool if you don’t realize that.”

He thinks of the things Burr has done that were so unlike _Burr_ , but made Alexander like him even more. Sitting by his bedside every day while he recovered from his bullet wound. Being good with his kids. Taking a chance and kissing him. Keeping his garter like a memento. Leaving him, because he couldn’t cope with wanting him. Lazy afternoons in bed while English rain beat against the window. Clandestine touches of hands underneath tables, because he wanted to hold his hand and couldn’t wait until they were alone. His jealousy when he paid attention to someone else. Tending to him when he was sick, pulling his hair back and kissing his neck. Holding him on the ship while he cried about his childhood and was almost moved to tears himself.

Alexander has been so adamant to think of Burr as austere, impervious to feelings — partly because Burr keeps telling him that’s how he is — that he’s never considered thinking of him any differently, but Burr does _feel_ , so deeply that Alexander hasn’t ever noticed.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to see it.

“He’s changed you,” Eliza says, quiet, “in a good way. And you’ve changed him for the better, too.”

“Maybe so.” Alexander thinks his life is better since they’ve understood each other. He knows now what Burr had meant when he said _talk less_. He didn’t mean for him to say less words, but to _listen._ Burr had been telling him all along. If he had listened sooner…

But that’s their past.

He won’t think of it, not when cuddling with Eliza is an option. She is much more comforting than thinking how things could’ve been different.

“He won’t leave you,” Eliza says. “If he does, _I’ll_ shoot him.”

“You wouldn’t,” Alexander says, but he’s reassured, and the last thing he remembers before falling asleep is missing Burr next to him.

 

* * *

 

Alexander dreams of Burr leaving him. In his dream, Burr takes his face in his hands and kisses him the sweetest he’s ever kissed him, the kind of kiss that feels like a goodbye, and he says, _I’m sorry_ , and leaves, even though he promised he wouldn’t. Alexander follows, but Burr outpaces him — he wonders if Burr crippled him so he could get away — and Alexander has to stop. He feels a tug in his chest. He looks down and sees a red string connecting the two of them. From Burr’s hand to Alexander’s chest, tied around one of his ribs. Burr sees it. He can’t leave, he isn’t supposed to. He comes towards Alexander, comes back to him, and he kisses him again and Alexander knew he couldn’t leave him, he couldn’t — but then there’s a sharp pain in his chest. Something’s missing. He looks down and Burr is yanking at the string connecting them, Alexander feels it _snap_ —

It takes a moment to orient himself when he wakes up. He expects the view of the dreary London street out the window, or the sometimes gentle but sometimes violent rock of the ship.

But he’s home.

He puts his hand to his abdomen, against his ribs. He feels whole. He presses where it still hurts, sometimes.

It’s quiet. It’s the middle of the night, dark except for the candlelight next to Eliza’s side of the bed. She’s awake, sitting up against pillows and knitting a woolen cap that’s for Rita, judging by its tiny size. Alexander watches her work, hands moving so fast he can’t really see how the needles and yarn work together, but he sees progress on the row she’s making. Once she had tried teaching him how to knit, but he jabbed himself with a needle and got the yarn tangled and his stitch was sloppy and it made his wrists ache, so he ended up participating by holding the ball of yarn while Eliza knitted.

He’s missed this — lovely domestic things that make him fall in love with her impossibly more. Like how she fixes his cravat and then he’ll lace her corset, or that she butters his toast on both sides even though she says she shouldn’t, or when he braids her hair as they talk about their day before they go to bed, or when he lets her play with his hair so she can try out a new hairstyle before she does it on herself or one of the girls. Small things that show they care.

He continues to watch her for a while until she does another one of those small things — glancing over to him to check on him. She smiles when she sees he’s awake.

“Sneaky,” she says, placing her knitting to the side and turning to him. “How long have you been awake?”

“A few minutes.” Alexander trails his fingers over her leg through the sheet, gives her a sly smile. “But I was so captivated by your beauty, I couldn’t say anything.”

“There’s no need for flattery. I’m already in bed with you.”

“Truly,” Alexander says. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

“You’re talking now.” She puts her hand to his face, rubs her thumb tenderly against his cheekbone, like she’s afraid it’ll break if she presses too hard. “But not about what you’re thinking of.”

He could try to lie and say that he’s thinking only of her, but with the way she’s looking at him — profoundly, like she knows everything about him before he’s even aware of it himself — she already knows.

“I was thinking how lucky I am to have you, but Burr is alone,” he says. “I’m worried he thinks I don’t care about him…as much as I do.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to tell him how much he cares.

Eliza smiles, small. Sad? She’s still caressing his cheek. It’s nice, soothing for the pain in his chest. “What else?” she asks.

“You’re right.” He turns his head to kiss her palm, mumbles against her hand. “I _am_ dismissive of his feelings.”

“And?”

“If he leaves it’s because I didn’t give him a reason to stay,” he says. “I don’t want to wait until it’s too late.”

Life is too short not to take every chance they have. They deserve their time being happy after so much grief and anger — two sad orphans, looking for a place to belong. For someone to care.

Eliza seems to be pleased that he’s come to that conclusion after she led him to it, but she still has that same sad smile. It’s in her eyes — sorrowful. But not sorrow for something she’s lost, but sorrow for him.

She leans in, kisses him softly, and then says, “Then I suggest you go get him,” sensible, as if it were the only option.

“What—” Alexander clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Eliza says, and then she puts her lips to his ear and whispers, “Go get your _lover_.”

Alexander is out of bed in an instant — suddenly wide awake — walking without his cane, and he’s half out the door when he hesitates and looks back to Eliza.

“Are you sure?” he asks. His hand tightens on the doorknob, waiting for her answer. He reacted too quickly, he appeared too eager, and he isn’t really sure what he’s doing, or maybe Eliza didn’t mean it and she was seeing if he would _,_ but Eliza just grins, beautifully, and waves her hand at him to go on.

“Aaron—,” she says, glaring at Alexander when he makes an exaggerated gagging noise at the use of Burr’s given name, “is invited to lay with us in our bed.” She pauses. “But no funny business.”

“Burr and I will be as virtuous as maidens,” he says, and then blows her a kiss. “Best of wives.”

“I know.”

Alexander treads lightly down the hallway as best he can with his awkward hobble, barefoot and wearing only his shirt. It is thrilling, going to his lover’s room in the middle of the night on his wife’s request. The thought of being in bed with _both_ of them makes him quicken his pace. Burr’s room is only a few feet away, but it feels further, an entire ocean away. He goes to knock, but then his hand stills inches from the door, hesitating for some reason — a lingering doubt that they aren’t what he believes — and he brings his clenched fist to his face and bites his knuckles, thinking of what’s the worst that could happen.

 _Nothing could happen._ That’s the worst thing. He could not take this chance to let Burr know that he _cares_ about him and wants him close, always, and he’d go back to bed and Burr will never know, _nothing_ would continue to happen and all they would have had are those wonderful months in London.

Alexander forgoes knocking, and opens the door.

Burr jolts, startled, when Alexander enters the room and shuts the door behind him. He is awake, reading in bed — he probably hasn’t slept all night judging by the candle almost melted to nothing and the progress he’s made in the book. He puts his book aside as Alexander walks towards him, neither taking their eyes off the other.

“Alex?” he says, a question.

Alexander responds by rushing to Burr and putting his mouth on his.

It’s only been a few hours since they’ve last kissed, but they kiss like they’ve been apart for days. Teeth knocking together trying to kiss deeper, _more_ — but then Burr pulls at him, dragging him onto the bed and in his lap. Alexander lets out a surprised gasp that Burr kisses silent, and they keep kissing as Alexander straddles his legs. Burr runs his hand down Alexander’s back and Alexander forgets for a moment what he came to him for.

“Burr,” he says between kisses. “Burr, I — mmm.” He tilts his neck up so Burr can lick his neck. “I have something to say.”

“You always do.” Burr moves his focus from his neck and kisses him, thoroughly, mumbles, “You talk too damn much.”

They need to stop before it — some _things_ — get too hard to stop. “This just isn’t some nighttime nookie.”

“Then what is it?” Burr goes to slip his hand under Alexander’s shirt to touch his cock but Alexander swats his hand away. He raises his brow, asks, “What else does coming to my bedroom in the middle of the night mean? I assume this isn’t a legal matter.”

“I got used to being with you…,” Alexander begins, but that isn’t really what he means, so he takes a deep breath and says, “I missed you.”

“Me too.” Burr squeezes his ass.

No, that isn’t what Alexander meant either — although he misses that too — but why can’t he just _say_ it?

“I’m _serious_ ,” Alexander says, and when Burr doesn’t look like he believes him, he puts his forehead to Burr’s, as though he can impart to him how he feels. He stays like that until the urge to cry passes, and Burr makes a quiet sound, reassuring, and when pulls away Burr is smiling, and that’s a good sign — right?

Alexander kisses him soft, milder than before, but just as impassioned. A different kind of emotion. “Come to bed with me.”

Burr grins, cheeky, his dimples showing. “We’re in a bed.”

“With me and Eliza.”

So there, he’s said it. He doesn’t believe it’s happening, and apparently neither does Burr — he has the dumbest expression he’s ever had. It’d be cute if Alexander weren’t so nervous that he’s going to reject him.

But Burr recovers, regains that dour expression like he’s never had fun in his life.

“Absolutely not,” he says. He tries to push Alexander off his lap, but Alexander stays put, tightening his thighs against his. Burr pushes at his stomach and that _hurts_ so Alexander pushes back at him — Burr isn’t expecting it and knocks his head against the headboard.

“She wants you in our bed,” Alexander says, holding onto Burr’s shoulders and struggling to not fall onto the floor when Burr tries to detach himself from him. “You can’t disappoint my wife.”

“Yes, _your_ wife,” Burr says, exasperated. “I shouldn’t be there, unless I need to perform husbandly duties you can’t carry out yourself.”

“Don’t be an asshole.” Alexander leans forward, so he’s on top of him and Burr can’t move. “She wants you there. I want you there.”

Burr sighs, giving up the struggle, and rests his hands on Alexander’s waist. “She wants me there? She specifically said those words?”

“Well, no,” Alexander says, but when Burr goes to shove him off again he adds, “She said you should join us.” He takes the opportunity of Burr’s stunned silence to dip his head down and kiss him, hopefully good enough and sweet enough to be convincing. “Please?”

And because Burr cannot resist him when he begs — Alexander has learned this — Burr agrees. Alexander climbs off of him and takes Burr’s hand and pulls him from the bed because he looks a little lost on how to go about this from here.

“Let me…I need…” Burr gets his dressing gown from where it’s draped over the foot of the bed, puts it on slow, dazed. Alexander snuffs out the candle with his fingers, hurrying Burr along, taking his hand.

“Follow me,” Alexander says, and he has to almost drag Burr out of his room.

“I know where your room is. You don’t have to lead me to it.”

“I’ve never seen you reluctant to jump into someone’s bed,” Alexander whispers as they walk in the hallway. Burr makes a _humph_ sound but lets Alexander lead him forward the few steps between his room and the one Alexander shares with Eliza. Alexander had left the door cracked, and he pushes it open and drags Burr inside, and he’s there. Not running away.

Burr comes to a complete halt once they’re over the threshold. He looks around the dim bedroom — he’s been in here before but never in this context. Not when Eliza is in bed, waiting for both of them to join her. The single light flickers, concealing the details to darkness, which is probably a good thing for both Eliza and Burr’s modesties. Eliza’s modesty makes sense — she’s never seen another man this _personally_ before — but Burr’s does not, and that makes Alexander wonder what it means if Burr is shy around his wife, because he’s never known Burr to be apprehensive around any woman, ever.

He quickly shuts the door and locks it before Burr can escape. Not that Burr was trying to run. Maybe he does it to keep himself from running. Or it’s just to trap the three of them together, because this means something. How happy he is with both of them there. How Burr doesn’t leave. How Eliza smiles, coy, and says, “Hello, Aaron.”

Alexander goes to complain, but Eliza shoots him a look — _don’t mess this up._

“Hello, Eliza,” Burr says, business-like. “Alexander was not lying when he said my presence was requested?”

He sounds…hopeful.

“Alexander was missing you, and I’m curious about the man who’s beguiled my husband.” Eliza speaks strong, more confidently than Alexander feels. She pats the empty space in the bed next to her. “Well, are you two just going to stand there? There’s plenty of room if you sleep close, but I know that isn’t a problem for you.”

Alexander blushes. He anticipates Burr to hesitate, so he tugs at the knot of Burr’s dressing gown but Burr swats his hand away.

Fine. If he wants to be reserved, let him.

“Suit yourself,” Alexander says, “but you’re sleeping here.”

He crawls into bed, and Eliza moves over and he does too, leaving a Burr-sized place next to him. He snuggles into Eliza, then turns to look at Burr, who still stands at the end of their bed like he isn’t sure how he got there. Hell, Alexander doesn’t know how it’s happening, but he isn’t going to question it anymore. It seems as though none of them are, but they aren’t talking either — Alexander and Eliza stare at Burr, and he stares at them, silent.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” Eliza says, finally, because someone had to say something or else they’d spend the rest of the dark hours waiting for someone to make a move.

“No, he doesn’t get an option,” Alexander says, but Eliza elbows him. “Fine, only if you want to.”

And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Burr making the decision to _stay_.

And he does.

“I will after you’ve blown out the candle,” Burr says, which is fine — Alexander would rather Eliza not see Burr’s handsome body bathed in candlelight because he _knows_ Burr looks remarkable.

Eliza laughs, sounding as light and airy as Alexander’s chest feels. “Of course,” she says, and then blows at the flame.

Darkness.

It takes a moment for Alexander’s eyes to adjust. When they do, he sees the faint outline of Burr in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. There’s the rustling of fabric, footsteps, and then Burr stubbing his toe against the bed and cursing, followed by an apology. Eliza muffles a laugh against Alexander’s shoulder, but then he hears her breath hitch when the mattress dips as Burr climbs into bed with them.

And Alexander is between them. Burr lays unmoving, and so does Eliza, but Alexander can’t stop fidgeting. “Alexander,” Eliza says, scolding, and he feels Burr laugh — Eliza is snuggled against Alexander but Burr could be closer. He wants both of them pressed against him, warm. He may be greedy but they are _his._

“Burr,” he mumbles, kissing him on his cheek, then he turns on his side and kisses Eliza the same, “Betsey.” He curls his body against Eliza’s, reaches back and grabs Burr’s hand, drags his arm across his middle. Burr gives a sigh of what Alexander would say is defeat, but he scoots closer so his front lines up to Alexander’s back and he tightens his hold on him, draping himself over him — careful not to touch Eliza — and kisses the back of his neck. Body against body against body, close-fitting like a puzzle.

Alexander had never felt more secure in his life

“Good night,” Alexander says, and he falls asleep warm and content, listening to the breathing of the two favorite people. Safe.

 

* * *

 

Alexander wakes at first light — he left the curtains parted because he wanted to see the sunrise. He blearily opens his eyes, watching as the strip of light slowly goes from a sliver to illuminating the entire room with a warm, yellow glow. It feels different here, even though he knows it’s the same sun as the one on the other side of the world.

It feels like it’s welcoming him home.

Home.

Eliza sleeps calmly next to him with her hand on his shoulder like she’s keeping him from leaving, and Burr is nestled against his back. Alexander looks over his shoulder, just to make sure he isn’t imagining him, and he sees that Burr is there — he _stayed_ — and that Cleo is sleeping in the valley between their bodies.

This is home.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, he’s pulled from a dreamless sleep by something wet on his ear. Licking. Alexander sleepily mutters, “Stop that, Burr,” but when he opens his eyes it’s Cleo laying next to his head, licking persistently at his ear lobe, her whiskers tickling his face. He realizes that he isn’t sure how she got inside their room since he closed the door before they all got in bed together — Burr must have let her in during the night.

Cleo paws at his ear. When he doesn’t respond, she sticks her face in his.

He sneezes, and she meows angrily at him, and then jumps off the bed and walks out of the room with her tail held high.

The door is open and…Burr isn’t next to him. The blanket is pulled up to the pillow, like Burr made the bed so it’s as though he was never there. Alexander runs his hand over where Burr had been. It’s cool, not body warm. He’s been gone for a while. But he was _there_ , Alexander remembers, Burr was there with him, holding him like a lover while his wife did the same on his other side. It wasn’t some wonderful dream…

Alexander can’t say he didn’t expect it. Burr probably felt awkward when he woke up in bed with both Hamiltons. Alexander understands, because it’s difficult for him to comprehend — wanting two people and all three being mostly agreeable with it — but he doesn’t like how lonely he feels, because the bed suddenly feels lot bigger with only two people in it.

“Are you upset he isn’t here?”

But his Betsey hasn’t left him.

“No,” Alexander says, because he knows Burr hasn’t _really_ left him, just for the moment. And how can he be upset when Eliza is looking at him with her adorable sleepy face framed with hair from where its fallen out of its nighttime braid.

“But I might be upset,” she says, unable to contain her smile when Alexander gapes at her. “It’s rude to leave without saying anything. It could make one think he didn’t enjoy our company.”

“Aaron Burr is terrible in the mornings,” Alexander says. “He’s very grumpy, and nowhere as near as lovely as you.” Alexander bumps his nose against hers, kisses her. “And his morning breath is worse.”

“I’m sure you kiss him anyway.”

“Well,” Alexander says, because he can’t deny that. As an answer, he presses himself against Eliza, rubs against her hip so she feels his erection that he’s had somewhat since he woke up but has become more urgent the more they’ve talked about Burr. “You know how stimulated I get in the morning.”

Eliza lets out a surprised, “Oh!” and a pretty blush spreads across her cheeks, but she grinds her leg back against him, bold enough to make _him_ blush.

“I must say I’ve missed this particular wake up call,” she says, sliding her hand underneath his shirt and wrapping her hand around his cock. “Starting my day with a firm prodding of wood against my backside.”

Alexander moans and thrusts against her palm. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

“You are aroused too easily,” Eliza says. Alexander is prone to agree with her, but it’s hard not to be when other things are hard, or when she does something sensual like peel the blankets off of them and move down his body, takes his cock in her hand and broadly licks the head of it.

“ _Eliza_ ,” Alexander breathes out, gasping, arching up into her mouth, and then looks down where she’s between his legs, then over to the open door. “The door—”

She rushes to the door and closes it and is back again so fast he hardly misses her touch on him. She says, “Where was I?” and her mouth curls into a grin, quickly hidden when she lowers it on him. Alexander moans — he’s missed this, it’s been so long since she’s had her mouth on him. Nobody does it better. She closes her eyes and makes a noise in her throat like she’s missed his cock in her mouth, and she sucks him with an enthusiasm which suggests that it is true. She licks at the underside, base to tip, kisses the head, smearing sticky precome on her lips.

“Why should you get anything?” Eliza trails her fingers up his length, making it jerk for more of her touch. “Have you been good?”

“Yes,” Alexander says, moaning, but then Eliza removes her hand from him and he amends, “No, I haven’t, not really, but I want you so much, _please_ Eliza—”

She must’ve been waiting for honesty, or perhaps she couldn’t resist him any longer, because she climbs on top of him, straddling his hips. She rubs her sex on his cock, grinding down when it slips between her folds. She is so wet already — his hips jerk for entrance and Alexander goes to rub at her clit because they have to make up for the months they were apart — but she shoos his hand away. She rises up enough to reach between them and grab him at the base, holding him steady as she finds the head of his cock and lowers herself on him agonizingly slow. Alexander has to force himself to _breathe_ and not thrust up into that inviting warmth. He tries to be patient. Tries to be _good._ He watches how Eliza’s face changes as she takes him in — eyes fluttering and open-mouth gasping — and he puts his hand on her thigh, squeezes, and then lifts her gown so he can see his cock buried in her. He’s half inside, and when she notices he’s looking, she clenches around him before sliding down — made easy with her slick — letting out a sigh once she’s sitting fully on his cock.

“Eliza,” he murmurs, tugging at her nightgown because he wants to see _all_ of her. Eliza lightly laughs and rocks forward on him, somehow it feeling like he gets deeper inside, and she pulls her fancy silk nightclothes off over her head, letting it fall to the floor.

“Better?” she asks, and Alexander nods because words fail him. She is a vision — beautiful and confident as she moves on top of him, using him to find her own pleasure. Rolling her hips and running her hands down her body, over her chest and down her sides as she looks at him brazenly. He loves it when she’s on top, and she does too. It took a few years to get her to try the position. It wasn’t until she was pregnant with their third — no, second — and was incredibly horny but too uncomfortable to lay down while he went in her. After she realized how great it was, she was very willing to climb on top of him anytime.

She is so tempting. She _knows_ what she does to him. She knows that he can’t resist her and that’s rather devious of her to use that against him, but he doesn’t care because there’s nobody else he’d rather fall victim to.

He lets out a fractured moan, goes to touch her breasts that are bouncing nicely as she rides him, but she takes his hands and guides them to stay on her hips. He whines, “ _Betsey.”_

She laughs, breathy. “Do you complain this much when you’re with Aaron?”

Alexander isn’t sure he heard her correctly — his brain isn’t functioning at its best at the moment with most of his blood elsewhere. “What?”

“Would Aaron say you’ve been good?” she asks, and Alexander thinks he’s either going to come immediately or lose his erection entirely. But Eliza keeps moving on him, using her knees to raise up before sinking down on his length again. “I know you aren’t good. You’re incredibly selfish.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Alexander says, even though he’s aware that he is kind of selfish, especially when it comes to sex.

“But the question is,” Eliza says, calm and with only a slight hitch in her voice, as if they were conversing over their afternoon tea, “is he good to you?”

Alexander groans, partly because of pleasure, mostly because they shouldn’t be talking about Aaron Burr. “No,” he says. “He’s terribly mean.”

Eliza makes a sound of interest as she grinds on him.

“Although,” Alexander says, meeting eyes with Eliza, “he’s mostly tolerable. His big cock makes up for it.” His nice, long, thick cock that tastes wonderful and feels great when it’s against his ass.

Eliza flushes at his crudeness. “Is his bigger than yours?”

“Of course not.” Maybe it is, just a bit, but she doesn’t need to know. “Why do you want to know?” he asks, because that’s the important question.

“I’m curious why you like him so much.” She nudges his hand from her leg, encourages him to rub his thumb at her clit. “Doesn’t he sleep with a lot of women?”

“Too many,” he mumbles. He touches where they’re joined, then circles around that sensitive place on her.

“What does he do with these women of his?”

“Um.” He thinks of accidentally seeing Burr fucking the inn’s whore in London, pounding her into the mattress like his life depended on it. He’s surprised that women want repeat trials with Burr — even the whores — because he knows Burr doesn’t hold anything back when he fucks. But maybe those women like that. Being utilized for his pleasure. _He_ likes that when he has sex with Burr. There’s something attractive about someone who takes what they want and knows what they’re doing.

“They all seem to like doing it with him,” Alexander says, “but that can be biased since most of his women are paid to lay with him.”

Eliza shifts on him. “Why does he pay? I know that plenty of women are willing to, ah, spread themselves for him for free. Plus, he has you.”

He tries not to take that as an insult.

“I don’t have some parts that he enjoys.” Alexander rubs at her harder, making her gasp and clench around him. “And I think he likes paying for it so there’s no emotional attachment.”

“Hmm.” Eliza leans forward, enough that his cock slips out of her. She rubs her ass on it and holy fucking shit, if being apart from him makes her like this, he needs to go away more often. But he wants back in her _now,_ so he takes his cock and pushes it back inside.

Eliza moans. “But what is he like? Based on your experience?” she asks, and he’s too preoccupied by her sitting on his cock to think why she might be asking this for reasons other than vague interest. It’s unfair that she’s waited until he’s trapped to ask him these questions — she could keep him like this for ages, teetering on the edge of almost enough. She’s making him explain _why_ he likes Burr, why he wants to fuck someone other than her. She wants him to give her a good reason.

He feels his cock twitch hotly in her. “He’s very amorous. He was shy at first with me — since I was the first guy he’s been with — but he quickly got over that when he realized how great it could be. Our lust matches each other. He has a lot of stamina, which is surprising for a man his age. A few times he’s rubbed and sucked me into exhaustion.”

Eliza makes another one of those thoughtful sounds. “But how about his style? Is he rough? Considerate?”

“Uh, he’s…” Alexander thinks how to explain Burr because he is rough and cruel at times, but he’s always considerate — but then he shakes away the distractions and realizes what Eliza is asking. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.” Eliza speeds up her movements on him, places his hand on her, and he quickly forgets about Burr and focuses on her because he’s very close, feeling her tight around him and he thrusts up, meeting her—

She comes first, body curling forward and quivering, holding onto Alexander’s hips to steady herself, face contorted in a way that would look like she’s in pain if she weren’t making such delightful noises — and Alexander comes right after, moaning as he releases inside her, encouraged by her sex pulsing around him.

Eliza collapses on top of him, resting her head on his chest. Alexander likes this just as much as sex — the after, where they’re sweaty and sticky but so _so_ comfortable being with each other. He runs his hand down her spine, feels her shiver against him, kisses the top of her head. His rapidly beating heart slows as he aligns his breathing with hers. He could stay like this all day.

But he won’t — Eliza gets up and moves across their room. “I have housework to do,” she says, toweling off, and then bends over the basin to splash her face, as if that can hide the fact she just had sex. “I should’ve been downstairs already.”

Alexander props himself up on his elbow, watching her. “It’s only my first full day back home. Stay in bed with me.” And then maybe they can talk about why she was so _curious_ what it’s like to fuck Aaron Burr — it’s good that she has put her resentment aside and wants to talk about his relationship with Burr, but he hadn’t expected her to be that forthright about it. “Bet- _sey_.”

She comes back to him, and for a moment he thinks he’s convinced her, but she just kisses him and pats his face.

“There’s plenty of time for that later,” she says. Smiles. “But you can help me dress.”

He helps as he’s needed, adjusting her layers of clothing, occasionally getting distracted by touching her skin before it’s covered with material. Kissing her shoulders, running his hand over her ass. She forgoes her corset, saying she shouldn’t have to when she’s had a baby so recently, and she’s just staying at home anyway. Alexander doesn’t blame her, he would never wear one of those hellish contraptions. He picks out a dress the color of sun-warmed sand, helps her put it over her head, fixes the ruffles on the skirt, kisses her on the cheek.

“Go do what you need to do,” she says, then looks him up and down. “But first, put on some clothes.”

“Must I?” he asks, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. “It isn’t too late to take your clothes back off.”

She giggles and says, _Alexander!_ but she gives in and kisses him once more before breaking free of his hold.

“Go,” she says, and exits the room before he can follow.

He sits on the bed. He knows that Eliza can’t devote all her time with him, bit he wishes she could. He supposes he got spoiled.

 

* * *

 

There are a lot of things he needs to do — look over their finances, spend time with the children, catch up on news he missed while he was abroad, go into work to answer messages left for him — but there is something else that he must handle before he gets any relief.

Burr.

Alexander dresses in a new outfit that’s made of maroon velvet with black embroidery, and he fixes his hair so it’s shiny and has a flip at the end. He knows Burr likes it when he’s _pretty_ , so he makes an effort.

He turns around, checks out his ass. Yeah, Burr should be pleased. Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?

Burr is in his room — of course, secluding himself from company. He’s fully dressed at his desk that he had brought from his home when he moved into the Grange, writing furiously in that stupid journal of his. Alexander knows that Burr knows he’s there, because Burr’s hand stills for a moment and his shoulders tense, like he’s aware of Alexander’s presence just by scent or proximity, but then he resumes writing. His shoulders stay tense, scrunched up almost to his ears.

Alexander shuts the door with a click. Burr still doesn’t turn around, keeping his attention on whatever he’s writing, scratching his quill across the paper.

Rude.

Alexander walks over to him, tapping the floor with his cane louder than necessary with each step. Burr _still_ isn’t looking at him when he’s next to him, so he leans on his cane, jutting out his hip, and then clears his throat.

“ _What_ do you _want?”_ Burr snaps, harsh enough that Alexander flinches, but he immediately takes a deep breath, and then exhales, as though he’s forcing all his tension away. He sets his quill aside and shuts his journal, prolonging the moment, and then he finally looks at Alexander, turning the chair to face him. He doesn’t seem to be angry, but he speaks tersely, through clenched teeth. “What is it, Alexander?”

He isn’t calling him _Hamilton_. That’s a start.

“I just wanted to say hello.” Alexander lays his hand on Burr’s shoulder, steps between Burr’s legs so he’s close against him, leaning his body against his. “You left me in bed this morning.”

Somehow, Burr sits there like a statue with Alexander pressed against him, but his jaw twitches and ah, yes, there’s the crack in his stony resolve.

“Haven’t you had enough attention this morning?” Burr asks, unimpressed by Alexander’s advances on him. “But it appears that wasn’t satisfying.”

It occurs to Alexander that Burr likely overheard his and Eliza’s love making — they weren’t very restrained, still too enthusiastic after their time apart. Burr has said that he’s heard them before, but he’s never made an effort to _not_ eavesdrop, which is…interesting.

And what is even more interesting is that it seems to bother him.

And that it _doesn’t_ bother Alexander.

He doesn’t balk. If he moves just right he can rub his thigh against Burr’s crotch, creating a marvelous friction. He starts a steady grind, up and down against that bulge in Burr’s breeches. He moans a little, for show, tilting his head back and a letting out a cracked _oh_ because he knows Burr loves that, and he must enjoy it — Alexander smiles when he feels Burr’s cock reacting before his face shows any indication of a growing interest. Burr’s eyes flicker down, lingering where Alexander is pressed against his hardness, and then on Alexander’s ass — _took him long enough to notice_ , Alexander thinks — and grabs him, holding him in place while he moves against him.

It’s a lot of fun but his leg is starting to cramp so he eases off to reposition himself, but the momentary lack of rubbing must be too long to wait because Burr growls and wraps his arm around his waist, nearly pulling him into his lap.

“Is this what you wanted?” Burr asks. “You wanted to rub against me like a dog in heat?”

“I missed waking up with you.” Alexander means it to be innocent, that he wanted them next to each other, but when Burr touches him like he’s starving for him, he can’t deny that he missed more than that. “I missed my good-morning kiss. I missed _this_ ,” he says, grabbing Burr’s cock through his breeches.

Burr groans, then curses. “I shouldn’t have been in the bed you share with your _wife._ ”

“You didn’t have any moral quandaries about it when you climbed into it with us,” Alexander says. Burr swears at him, but doesn’t disagree. Alexander grins because he knows he’s right, and rubs his thumb around the head of Burr’s cock. “But if Eliza hadn’t been there, would you have had no issues having sex in my marriage bed?”

“ _Fuck,_ Alex.” Burr kisses him roughly, biting at his lower lip as he reaches between them and gropes at him. Alexander wishes he could will himself to hardness so they could mutually get off, but he can’t, so he just smiles when Burr pulls back with a confused expression that he’s as limp as one of his dying cabbages in the garden.

“I’m not quite ready yet.” Alexander kisses him, as though an apology for his non-responsive cock, but Burr touches him anyway, tracing the outline of the shaft with his fingers. Alexander shivers and something stirs in his stomach, even though nothing stirs down below. He says, “My mind is willing but my body is not.”

“I know it takes you a while to recover, old man,” Burr says, smug about his own unyielding erection, and damn him, he does have a quicker turn-around time than Alexander. Age hasn’t seemed to slow his cock, whereas Alexander can’t get it up as often as when he was younger. Not that it’s a competition. But Burr doesn’t have to be so boastful about it. Maybe Burr’s incredible refractory period has to do with him having lots of sex. Keeping it active.

“I know you fucked Eliza before you came to see me,” Burr says, so direct that Alexander blushes, and he knows that Burr notices because he looks pleased — proven correct — and he continues, “If I haven’t of overheard you, I would have known by your strut. Everyone knows when you’ve had sex.”

“I only strut for you.” Alexander undoes a button on of Burr’s breeches, and then cups his hand over Burr’s hardness straining against them. Alexander’s mouth waters at the anticipation of his cock springing forth, waiting to be sucked. “It’s like…animals. That’s my mating dance.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Burr says, too calm for a man with someone palming his cock. “You’re selfish. If you knew there wasn’t the chance for reciprocation, why would you come to me? To show off?”

“ _No_ ,” Alexander says, frustrated. He isn’t that selfish. He just wants to suck Burr’s cock. It isn’t that complicated. So, if anything, he’s generous.

“I want this—“ and Alexander goes to his knees in front of Burr, one at a time and holding onto the chair for support because yes, he is older, but he still has his skills. He bites down on a twinge of pain in his side and focuses on that thick bulge he wants to put his mouth on. He runs his hands up Burr’s legs, stops at his hips, doesn’t touch where he knows Burr must be aching for him.

Burr looks at him with mild amusement, like he’s watching an amateur theater troupe, but he spreads his legs wider so Alexander can get between them. Alexander puts his head on Burr’s lap, and then kisses the inside of his thigh. “ _This_ is what I wanted.”

“You can’t even get your cock hard and you still want mine,” Burr says, looking down at Alexander. He tucks hair behind Alexander’s ear, and Alexander is so desperate for his touch that he whimpers when his fingertips brush his ear.

Goddamn it, he wishes he could get it up. If he could, he’d be sitting in Burr’s lap, halfway to rutting his way to an orgasm. He wishes Burr would hurry up and let him put his cock in his mouth, but Burr keeps wanting to _talk_. He only talks this much when he wants to make a point.

Burr says, “But I shouldn’t be surprised you want it, because I know how much you like cock,” which is true, and Alexander isn’t ashamed to admit it, and Burr knows that too, so he doesn’t know what purpose the comment serves.

“You know me so well, Burr.” Alexander closes his eyes and presses his face into Burr’s crotch, inhales, and _fuck_ , he can smell Burr’s arousal even when it’s covered up with fabric. “And I especially like your cock.”

“So, what?” Burr could at least say _thank you_ when given a compliment, but he carries on like Alexander isn’t on his knees, salivating for him. “You got done putting yours in your wife then had a craving for cock?”

“Yes. Yours.” Alexander licks at Burr and the fabric is dissatisfying on his tongue, so he works at undoing Burr’s breeches with one hand while he rubs Burr’s cock through the material with his other. _Soon,_ he tells it, and to the man who possesses it he says, “This is mine, now— _ah,_ ” but gets cut off when Burr yanks at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“If you want it, you need to ask for it,” Burr instructs with ruthless authority — he is so very, very cruel. Alexander doesn’t mind begging except when it’s requested of him, so he ignores Burr and tries to take his cock out but Burr pulls his hair again, harder this time. A reprimand. Or, it’s meant to be, but they both know that Alexander loves it. He loves that jolt that should be painful, but it’s pure pleasure running down his spine, and he loves that he trusts Burr enough to give this to him, that he makes him feel _safe—_

Burr makes him feel safe.

He puts his face on Burr again, rubbing it against him — he wants to finish taking off his pants, he’ll do it with his teeth, whatever it takes — but Burr gets the hair at the root, scratching his scalp and tugging, pulling him away and tilting his head back so Alexander has to look at him.

“What do you say?” Burr asks, and when Alexander doesn’t answer he pulls again, sighing as though he is bored.

A stuttered gasp overtakes Alexander. He almost chokes on it — he’s never been this horny and unable to do anything about it. He blinks to clear his vision, and sees that Burr is smiling, that scoundrel. He’s probably getting off on Alexander’s sexual frustration.

“Alexander.” Burr runs his fingers through his hair, and he’s so hypersensitive that another one of those gasps escape him. “I won’t allow you to put your mouth on me unless you ask, because I’ll assume you don’t want it that badly…”

Fine. He’ll _beg._ He’ll plead his case and they’ll both get what they want. It’s been…a day since he’s been intimate with Burr. Too long. He won’t let Burr deny that he wants him. He won’t give Burr the chance to forget.

“Can I please suck your cock?” Alexander asks, and then adds _,_ “Please, _sir?”_ because he can’t resist that old play between them — and he’d say it’s quite successful because Burr swears at him and releases his hold on his hair to fumble with his breeches, moving the flap and untucking his shirt to pull his cock out.

“Thank you,” Alexander says, moaning softly as he takes Burr’s cock in his hand. He licks along his length, savoring the taste. Burr grunts and his cock twitches, so Burr can’t say that he doesn’t want him even though he has that annoyed look on his face. There’s precome dribbling from the tip, and Alexander licks that up and then sucks on the head, lightly pulling on his foreskin with his lips. Burr makes an appreciative sound and buries his hand back in Alexander’s hair, but he doesn’t tug on it, just remains a steady presence there. It encourages Alexander to proceed. He slides the foreskin down and Burr is wonderfully slick, and his cock is hard for him—

Alexander takes him into his mouth, closes his eyes as he’s reunited with this part of Burr. His cock is heavy on his tongue and he holds it there for a moment, enjoying the bliss of his lips stretched around him. He could do this for hours. Until his cock wakes back up and he could bring himself off while he sucks Burr. Or until his knees gave out. He wishes he put a pillow on the floor so he could kneel on it because his knees are beginning to ache, but he doesn’t dare complain because Burr would probably call him old again, and then he’s have to stop to readjust and he doesn’t _want_ to stop.

He pulls off, swirls his tongue around the glands, sloppy, getting spit all over his chin. “You taste so good. I can tell you’ve missed me.”

Alexander knows Burr thinks he’s sexy — on his knees, lips red, face messy — because he _is_ sexy. Burr has dropped the unimpressed act, and is making soft sounds of pleasure, mixed with words like _good_ and _Alex._ He massages at Alexander’s scalp and running his thumb over Alexander’s lips. Alexander kisses it, and then gently bites.

“You can’t go one day without my cock,” Burr says. “You’ve been spoiled.”

“That’s your fault.” Alexander wraps his hand around the tip and slowly rubs him as he licks at the base, and then lower, at his balls. He grins when Burr lets out a very un-Burr-like noise.

“Eliza asked about you, you know,” Alexander says as he licks him, because he hasn’t had much time to think about it until now. It was like a fantasy he hadn’t yet realized, Eliza wanting to know about him and Burr together, and she wasn’t disgusted but _intrigued_. He wants to know what Burr thinks because he isn’t quite sure what he thinks of it himself.

He watches Burr’s response, and what a lovely response it is. A deep maroon blooms in Burr’s cheeks and his words catch in his throat, says very dumbly, “What?”

“My wife,” Alexander says, pausing to lick his cock, “asked about you.” He grips him, stroking him tip to base, sucks at the head, pulls off with a _pop._ “You were our topic of conversation during our love making.”

He feels Burr’s hand twitch where it’s resting against the back of his head. “What did she want to know?”

Alexander puts his mouth on Burr to keep from talking. He blushes thinking of how Eliza casually asked about Burr while she worked herself on his cock. He doesn’t think he could repeat her inquiries about Burr’s size or if he’s a considerate lover because it feels downright _obscene_ when it came from Eliza’s mouth, but Burr doesn’t need to know. There ought to be some secrets kept between spouses. However…

“She wanted to know if you were good to me,” Alexander says, stroking Burr with a proficiency that makes him thrust forward for more. He looks at Burr’s cock sliding in his fist, and then up at Burr. “She wanted to make sure my lover is treating me well.”

“She is a very caring wife, and you don’t deserve it,” Burr says, slurred, and Alexander knows the man well enough to know his gibe is compensating for how awkward he feels. “What did you tell her?”

“I said you were adequate.”

“That’s all?”

Alexander smiles. Burr is so much fun.

“We didn’t talk much when she became more interested in my cock.” Alexander speeds up his hand, thumbs over the head and smearing precome down the shaft. “She sucked my cock. She’s better at it than you. Maybe after twenty-five years you’ll be as good. Practice makes perfect.”

Burr makes a pained noise, but it sounds similar to when he’s really turned on. This may have started with the illusion that Burr was in control, but Alexander has been all along. He has the upper hand — as it were — with Burr’s cock in his hand, desperate for release.

“As I’m sure you know, it’s hard to think of much else when you’ve got my cock,” Alexander says. “After she sucked on me, she rode me like a horse—”

“Stop talking about your wife and do what you came here to do,” Burr says through gritted teeth, and there’s one of those sharp tugs at his hair and okay, okay, _bossy_ —

“Yes, sir.” That makes Burr’s cock twitch in Alexander’s hands and he can’t resist any longer. He wraps his hand around Burr’s cock and lowers his mouth on him, resting his other hand on Burr’s hip to steady himself because his knees are hurting and because he wants to do a good job so he can vicariously experience Burr’s orgasm. He wants to see Burr come, he wants it warm and salty on his tongue, he wants to swallow it—

He bobs his head on his cock, first focusing at the tip — which is very nice but he wants _more_. He opens his mouth wider, takes Burr’s cock further into his mouth until his lips meet where his fingers are wrapped around the base and he feels it nudging the back of his throat, and his mouth is so full he can’t do anything other than swallow around it. Burr is overwhelmed — Alexander is faintly aware of Burr swearing with a mix of _Alex_ and _please_ and _oh god_ and Alexander works to make him say more. Burr pulls at Alexander’s hair that’s wound around his fingers, which makes Alexander moan around him, which makes Burr pull harder. Burr is close — Alexander can taste it — and he backs off to jerk him quickly as he sucks at the head.

“Alex.”

Alexander meets his gaze, and Burr tries to say something else but he can’t — either he can’t make his words form or he can’t bring himself to say them — but he moves his hand from where it’s in Alexander’s hair and he places it to the side of his face instead. It’s such a tender gesture, Alexander wants to cry — he puts his hand over Burr’s, looks at him and winks and then Burr comes, spilling into his mouth with a strained _Alex_ and Alexander swallows it all, dutifully. He is good.

He lets Burr’s cock fall from his mouth when he’s done, and sits back on his heels. He smiles seeing Burr lax in the chair, content with his cock hanging out of his breeches. It takes a moment for him to come back to his senses and look down at Alexander at his feet. He takes his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes Alexander’s slobber off of him, and then bends over to clean Alexander’s messy face before tossing the now soiled handkerchief on the table.

“I need help to stand,” Alexander says softly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Burr seems that he doesn’t know, either, but he holds out his hand to help, but Alexander grips the chair arms to get off the floor. His side throbs in pain but he’ll be damned if he can’t help himself.

Burr sighs, annoyed, but he stands with Alexander. They stare at each other for a moment, but then Burr starts fussing at Alexander’s hair, fixing where it’s tangled from where he had his hand in it.

Oh, Burr.

Alexander kisses him. “Are we okay?”

Burr tilts his head. “Yes. Should I worry that we aren’t?”

“You worry, regardless,” Alexander says, because he knows Burr. He worries, always.

“I don’t worry that you don’t like me when you suck my cock like that,” Burr says, smiling, but serious.

Alexander blushes. “I like you,” he says. “I miss having nothing to do other than be with you. But…”

“It’s okay. I have things to do as well,” Burr says, thankfully understanding him without having to explain. “I’ll still be here later.”

“You better,” Alexander says, kissing him once more and leaving before he can say anything else.

 

* * *

 

Alexander is a little uncomfortable in his breeches after he locks himself in his office. He tries to do something about it but his mind is too distracted, so he gives up and uses that energy to concentrate on his work instead. Cataloging receipts, answering letters, putting news articles aside to read later.

He doesn’t realize that hours have passed until there’s a timid knock at the door, startling him from his heated letter to a senator friend with the plea to not support Jefferson’s policy of trade.

A paper slips under the door. Alexander pushes back his chair, goes over to it, uses his cane as support to bend down and retrieve it. In Angie’s handwriting it says—

> _Mama made lunch and she’s demanding you join us. She said you left your work for months to go gallivanting across the ocean, so it can wait one more afternoon._
> 
> _P.S. there are cookies._

He glances over at the pile of work waiting for him. The choice is easy.

 

* * *

 

The spot across the table where Burr normally sits is empty.

“He went downtown,” Theo says when she sees his eyes lingering at his absence.

Alexander frowns. “I don’t care.” He grabs for the cookies first — sugar cookies, his favorite, and they’re still warm from the oven — and he eats half of one in one bite.

Eliza gives him a scolding look, but doesn’t say anything.

James reaches for a cookie, following his father’s example, and Eliza has to argue with him to finish his meal first.

Alexander slips him one under the table.

 

* * *

 

Burr is gone for most of the day. Alexander guesses that he needed space to think about _them_ — like Alexander is doing himself, at home. Alexander doesn’t come to any conclusions because he doesn’t know if they have a problem to worry about.

It’s almost dusk when Burr returns. Alexander sees him from the window in the sitting room, and he rushes to meet him in the foyer, says, “Hello,” as Burr comes through the door.

“Hello,” Burr replies, and Alexander doesn’t have to ask where he’s been because he has that expression where he hates himself, and that smell, Alexander _knows_. He’s been to visit a prostitute.

Burr isn’t forthcoming, so he must know that Alexander knows. He just sighs as Alexander follows him as they go through the house and upstairs without saying anything, until they’re in Burr’s room and the door is closed behind them.

“As soon as you left me, you had to go find the first woman to fuck, didn’t you?” Alexander asks, not giving Burr a moment to begin to defend himself. “You were too embarrassed or—or ashamed that you want me, that you like me—”

“That isn’t true and you know it.” Burr sighs, sitting down in the same chair that he was in this morning. “Anytime I do something, it isn’t a direct correlation of you.”

Alexander frowns. Burr is right, he knows he is — they’ve had this argument again and again. He knows that Burr feels differently about him.

But.

“Now that we’re home I know it’s easier for you to find an excuse to leave me.”

Burr looks taken aback, like he didn’t expect his vulnerable display of honesty. He motions for Alexander to come closer to him. Alexander does, even though he kind of wants to argue continue their argument, but Burr takes his hand and kisses his knuckles and his knees feel like they’re going to give out.

“I won’t leave you,” Burr says, assuring him. He sighs again. “You know how you write when you want to clear your head?”

Alexander nods.

“Well,” Burr says, “with me, I—”

“Fuck strangers?”

Burr lightly laughs. “I’m glad you understand.”

Alexander cracks a smile, but he still feels grumpy and a little neglected, but Burr grabs his hand and pulls him towards him, directing him to sit in his lap. Alexander sits sideways on one of Burr’s legs and puts his arm around Burr’s shoulders and swings his legs over the arm of the chair. Burr goes _oof_ and Alexander hits his chest and tells him, “Shut up,” and he wiggles to get comfortable and he thinks the chair might break, but Burr holds his hip, making him sit _still_ , and the chair stops creaking.

Burr nuzzles his face against Alexander’s neck. He says, “If I fucked every whore and willing lady in New York City, I’d still want you.”

Alexander’s heart does something funny in his chest. He blushes. “How sweet of you.”

Burr kisses a trail up his jaw to his ear. “Fucking someone else doesn’t mean I don’t like you. You were bragging about having sex with Eliza this morning—”

“Don’t compare your whore-mongering with what I have with my wife.”

“You’re right. She matters to you.” Burr nips at Alexander’s earlobe.

 _You matter to me, too,_ Alexander thinks. “So?”

“You never hear me whining for your devoted attention.”

“Are you joking? You grumble all the time for it—”

Burr kisses him. Burr kisses him like he’s asking for his attention — lingering, ardently, deliberate — like he’s proving something, and his hand roams Alexander’s thigh, curls at his hip. Alexander falls into it, feels like he’s a cloud, water drawn up from a lake and floating in the sky, waiting to fall back to the ground, in an endless loop.

“I like you very much,” Burr says. “What can I do that’ll convince you of this forever, my Alex?”

“Kiss me again,” Alexander says, and Burr does. He kisses him and it feels like forever.

Alexander whimpers when they part. He bumps his nose against Burr’s, licks at Burr’s lips, asking for another kiss, but Burr shakes his head.

“I can’t sleep with you this evening,” Burr says. “We can continue _this_ —” he squeezes where his hand is on Alexander’s ass, “—but I can’t lay in the same bed with you and your wife.”

“I know.” He knew that would never work, no matter how much he wishes it.

Alexander leans his head against Burr’s shoulder, rubs his chest. Burr makes a pleasant sound and kisses his forehead, but then he shifts and says, “You have to get up, Alex.”

“No.”

“My leg is going numb.”

“I’m not _that_ heavy,” Alexander says, but he sighs because he knows it does get tiring. Even the younger kids make his legs go numb when holding them. “Fine, if I must.”

“…We can snuggle on the bed.”

“Excellent alternative.” Burr is a wonderful problem solver.

They lay on top of the blankets, fully clothed and facing each other. Burr rests his hand at the small of Alexander’s back, gives him another of those slow, deliberate kisses, and is true to his promise and snuggles up to him. Alexander tries to enjoy the moment for what it is, but he can’t stop thinking about how time is fleeting and how foolish Burr — and himself — are to believe that anything can be forever.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Aaron?”

Eliza is in bed, waiting — at the far end, as though she was expecting someone else. It does look a bit empty, now that someone else has been there with them.

He shuts the door behind him.

“Alone, in his room.” He undresses habitually, without thinking of it. Taking off layers and layers until there’s nothing more to remove. He wishes he could remove that feeling that’s resting on his shoulders like a heavy cape. He feels Eliza looking at him, and he instinctively crosses his arms across his middle, covering the ugly, jagged scar on his side that didn’t heal well, even with the best care. “He thought it wasn’t a good idea to be with us.”

Eliza makes a careful expression, and tosses his nightshirt to him. It goes about a foot too far to his left and falls on the ground. He shrugs and gets into bed naked, reaches across Eliza and snuffs out the light, and then settles next to her.

He had hoped they wouldn’t discuss Burr anymore and they could just snuggle, but Eliza asks, “Do you think he’s right.”

“Probably,” Alexander says, quiet, just in case Burr can hear them through the walls. It wasn’t a good idea to lie between Burr and Eliza. It wasn’t a good idea to feel comfortable to believe it is possible. But was any of this a good idea? All his good ideas were theoretically bad, until they weren’t. He was told it wasn’t a good idea to court one of the most affluent ladies in the city because he was a worthless immigrant, but Eliza was the best choice he ever made, and it hadn’t felt like a good idea to want Burr, until he realized it was so very, very good…

“How does that make you feel?” she asks.

Conflicted, mostly. Relieved that he feels conflicted. Mad that Burr found some morality and isn’t here, in their bed, and Alexander can’t hear him complain when he puts his cold feet on his. Optimistic, because one _no_ doesn’t mean _never._ Apprehensive that he doesn’t know what’s next. Sad, because it means he always will have to choose.

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> \- obvious red string of fate imagery in Alex's dream - his subconscious is saying they should be togetherrrrrr while his waking mind has doubts  
> \- the simile of "dying cabbages" is borrowed from bluecarrot. I said I didn't know how to describe limp dick and she provided  
> \- I think that's it? This chapter is mostly Drama and smut content, so actual facts notes lite
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support! I wouldn't be still writing if it weren't you all ❤️


	25. Aaron XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron and Hamilton mutually agree they need only a few days of rest at home to recuperate from their oversea travels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More drama ahead, as usual.

Aaron and Hamilton mutually agree they need only a few days of rest at home to recuperate from their oversea travels. They could benefit from a normal routine; they have nothing to do at home except sneak around for clandestine make-out sessions, and get mad at each other for no reason at all.

Hamilton is eager to throw himself back into work, and Aaron wants to have time with him, _alone_ , because even when he’s alone with him in the house, he isn’t really. The Grange is very crowded with all the Hamiltons. He’s very conscious of their presence, and he worries that he won’t be able to keep his relationship with Alexander a secret from the rest of the family, and then it’d be _his_ fault when it all falls apart, because he knows that Alexander will always pick his family over him. Which is fine, but…Aaron would rather it not come to that.

He’s aware he doesn’t fit in, despite the Hamiltons welcoming him as if he were family. Theo hasn’t had an issue — she’s madly in love with Angie, appears to be best friends with Al, and has taken with Eliza — but she’s always been more personable than him. To the Hamilton offspring, he’s still the man who nearly killed their father, and to Eliza, he’s the man regularly having sex with her husband.

He feels like…a burr. Something prickly that sticks to clothes and won’t leave.

So, he rushes Hamilton the first morning they are to return to work. The sooner they leave, the sooner they can be truly alone. He’s too anxious to have anything other than coffee, so he watches Hamilton have a plateful of breakfast, and then a bit more. Aaron drums his fingers on the table, impatient, and he knows Hamilton knows what he wants, but Hamilton just smirks at him, licks the tip of his finger, and opens the morning paper.

Now he’s just _trying_ to be vexing.

Aaron reaches across the table, grabs the paper and takes it from him. Hamilton glares at him like he’s a child who got his favorite toy taken away.

“I was reading that,” Hamilton says.

“You’re right. _Was_.” Aaron stands and waves his hand for him to do the same. “It’s time to go.”

The mood around the table is tense — Eliza, Theo, and the Hamilton kids hold their breath, waiting to see if Hamilton will listen. Hamilton quirks his head at Aaron, as though he’s deciding if he wants to be purposely disobedient, but then he dramatically rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Alright.” Hamilton chugs the rest of his coffee, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slaps the table. “I’ll finish getting ready, and then we can go,” he says, authoritative, like he came up with the idea himself.

“You _are_ ready.” Aaron didn’t endure giving Hamilton his opinion on four different outfits before he chose a black and midnight blue suit to wear an outfit that Hamilton hadn’t even modeled for him — a forest green suit with chartreuse embroidered accents. “I don’t think there is much you can do to make yourself look better.”

“Ha ha,” Hamilton says, dryly, obviously not believing Aaron’s insult at all — he’s confident that Aaron finds him attractive, and that is definitely Aaron’s fault. He tosses his hair over his shoulder and walks away from the table, because nobody stops Alexander Hamilton.

Aaron stares at the doorway, but he knows better than to expect Hamilton to come back and listen to him.

Goddamn it.

Yes, he likes Hamilton, and he’d like him a lot more if he weren’t so willfully disobedient — but that’s part of what makes Hamilton so irresistible, that _chase_ , keeping him interested—

He realizes that everyone at the table is staring at him. The Hamilton kids are amused that he can’t manage their father, and Theo hides her snickers behind her napkin.

“That went as expected,” Eliza says, unconcerned. She stirs another sugar cube in her tea. “You should know him by now.”

“Unfortunately,” Aaron says, and then stomps after Hamilton. She probably expected him to do that, too.

Whatever. It’s expected for Hamilton to do stupid things and it’s expected for Aaron to do something stupid in retaliation. Hamilton makes Aaron feel stupid — makes his head all fuzzy and dumb when Hamilton makes him mad or grins at him or whispers sweet nothings in his ear.

He doesn’t realize he’s in a hurry until he rounds the corner and skids to a stop, nearly colliding into Hamilton who’s waiting at the base of the stairs. Hamilton _knew_ he’d follow him, and he grins when he sees that Aaron had not only followed, but had _rushed_. It’s the kind of smile that makes Aaron’s head dumb — wilily, insufferable, exquisite.

Aaron puts his hands behind his back and holds his chin up. A soldier’s posture. “Are you trying to delay us?”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Hamilton takes the first stair and then rests his arms on the railing and looks down at Aaron. “I want to freshen up.”

“You look wonderful,” Aaron says, flat, partly because he wants Hamilton to _move_ , and partly because it’s annoyingly true. Hamilton always looks wonderful in his elaborate, ridiculous clothes…and out of them.

“Thanks, babe.” Hamilton leans over the railing, pops one foot up behind him, gives Aaron a quick peck on the lips.

It’s nothing, not compared to their other kisses, but here where someone could see them makes it feel downright scandalous. Warmth simmers under his skin and he wants more of that Alex-taste in his mouth. He wants to rub against him until their scents combine into a new scent, something theirs.

But Hamilton stops him, and stands out of his reach.

“Go on,” Hamilton says when Aaron is still too verklempt to speak. “Wait on the porch for me.”

Aaron wants to argue. He wants to follow Hamilton up to his room and argue and take off those fancy clothes and push him face down onto the bed and fuck him between his thighs until he’s begging for his cock to be touched. He wants to make Hamilton come hard on the same sheets he rolls around in with his wife, and he wants Hamilton to curl up with him when they’re done, sticky and content.

But he couldn’t _sleep_ in that bed without feeling like he’s crossed a line. Eliza wouldn’t be there when he and Hamilton fuck, but she would know what they did. He respects her too much to do that to her. He thinks Hamilton feels the same. Or maybe not, since he apparently fucked that Reynolds woman in their bed because he couldn’t say _no_ to getting some strange.

That makes Aaron angry with him for some reason. Before, he thought Hamilton was a dumbass for getting caught and a bigger one for publishing a report about it, but he never really cared. He wasn’t involved.

But now he is, and he’s furious that Hamilton was unfaithful to Eliza. How _dare_ he? How dare Hamilton risk what he has with Eliza — and with his _children_ — and how dare he do it again with Aaron? Does Hamilton see what they do as cheating, even if Eliza doesn’t? Has Eliza changed her mind? Aaron isn’t worth it.

He can’t help but wonder: would Hamilton do it again? And more concerning: _would he do it to me?_

But Aaron quickly brushes that thought aside. Hamilton can’t be unfaithful to him. They don’t have a _real_ relationship. They’re both men, and Hamilton is married. It’s Aaron’s fault if he got too attached, he knew what he was getting into — but Aaron has been enamored with him for longer than he can remember.

God, what are they doing—?

He goes from Hamilton before he says something stupid. He walks through the house and he walks onto the porch and he thinks about not stopping — he could keep on walking, like when he walked all the way to Canada during the war, because that was a better alternative than staying where he was.

But he promised Hamilton he’d stay, and he doesn’t _want_ to leave.

So, he stays.

Hamilton would follow him anyway, if only to tell him that he _knew_ he’d leave him again.

He doesn’t want to prove Hamilton right.

It’s a beautiful day, and he doesn’t want to waste it on being mad with Hamilton, ruining it before it’s even started. It’s the last of summer, but there’s that feeling in the air that something new is imminent. That promising feeling and the fresh air clear away tightness in his chest and the intrusive thoughts from his mind. He wishes he could spend the day with Hamilton lazing by the pond and soaking in the sunshine, but a long day shut inside the office is just as good. As long as they’re together, he’s satisfied.

It might be wrong of him, but he looks forward to having Hamilton all to himself. They’ll be in _their_ space — _Hamilton and Burr, Esquires_ with Hamilton’s name first because Hamilton said it sounds better. If Aaron wants to see Hamilton, he just has to look up from his desk and Hamilton will be a few feet away. He’ll say something and Hamilton will disagree, and that will make the day go by fast.

They work well together, not despite their differences but because of them. Maybe at some point they can lock the door and draw the curtains shut and take turns blowing each other. He fantasizes reading his work aloud while Hamilton sits under his desk and sucks him off, only taking his mouth off him to comment with edits, or maybe they can curl up on the couch together and read.

But his plans are quickly dashed when Hamilton comes out the front door with Al shuffling behind him.

“What are you waiting for?” Hamilton passes him and descending down the steps, taking them quickly like he’s the one who’s been waiting outside for…

Aaron takes his watch from his pocket and checks the time. It’s been eight minutes. He thought it would’ve taken Hamilton longer than that to get presentable to his standards.

“Come on!” Hamilton shouts, waving them on. “You’re wasting my time.”

Al heaves a sigh. He looks like he’d rather do anything else than go with them.

Aaron pats him on the shoulder. “Your old man isn’t that bad.”

“Did you think that before you shot him?” Al asks, but then he covers his mouth, as though he hadn’t intended to say that out loud. “I’m sorry, I meant—”

Aaron laughs, loud, and the poor kid looks at him confused and maybe a bit afraid, so Aaron smiles at him.

It seems to unsettle Al more.

“Let’s go before he threatens to shoot me,” Aaron says, and Al does laugh at that.

* * *

It’s an awkward ride to the office. Aaron sits across from Hamilton and Al, watching them interact. Alexander Hamilton senior and junior look alike, except in the ways they don’t. They have the same nose and they both have freckles and Al has the same scrawny body Hamilton had at his age. But Al’s dark hair is unmanageably curly compared to his father’s sleek waves — he tried to put it back into a bun this morning but a few curls have already escaped — and he doesn’t have arrogance in his eyes, and nobody has freckles like Alex.

Aaron looks away, mortified how well he knows Hamilton’s face.

Hamilton keeps making remarks about how he expects to go back to a mess at the office, not noticing that Al is getting more and more glum. Aaron feels badly for him because Hamilton is being overly critical, and it must not be easy being Hamilton’s son. He thinks about saying something, but Al needs to stand up to his father on his own, and he shouldn’t get (more) involved in their family matters, anyway. Finally, the snide criticisms get to be too much and Al defends himself, saying, “I tried my best, Pops.”

“I’m sure you did,” Hamilton says, dismissively. “But you still have a lot to learn. You need to be concentrating on studying to take your exam. When _I_ was your age I was in the war and had to put my career on hold, but then I caught up in record time.” He pauses. “But Burr did it first, which I’m still kind of bitter about.”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Aaron says to the window, continuing to pretend as if he isn’t there.

“Too late.”

Aaron turns to Hamilton, frowning, but then he’s reminded of those early days when they were new lawyers and Hamilton worked next door, and he smiles, just a little bit.

“We finished so quickly because we were insane,” Aaron says to Al. “Take your time. Enjoy your youth.”

 _Because we lost ours,_ he thinks, but before he can mourn his adolescence Hamilton hits Aaron’s ankle with his cane.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Don’t encourage my son to be lazy,” Hamilton says. He glances sidelong to Al, giving him a very _dad_ look that won’t accept disappointment. Al goes to speak, but Hamilton cuts him off. “Don’t listen to Burr. He’s a bad influence.”

Al laughs but covers it with a cough. “Is this one of those instances of _do as I say, not as I do_?”

Hamilton sputters, astonished that his shy son talked back to him. His expressions fight each other, like he can’t decide if he should be insulted or proud for his sudden streak of boldness. Al is obviously embarrassed — he blushes and looks like he’s five seconds away from apologizing, so Aaron stops him.

“Your son is smarter than you,” Aaron says. He thinks of telling Hamilton that if any Burr is influencing his son to be bold, it’s Theo, but he’ll gladly take the blame for her. “I probably am a bad influence, but no child of yours could be lazy. You’re non-stop.”

“Damn right. I’ve been working since I was twelve. I do not slack. Al, have I told you about when I was in the war,” Hamilton says, pausing when Al groans like he’s heard the beginning of this story a thousand times. “I was General Washington’s most trusted aide. I didn’t waste one minute. I even wrote while on horseback.”

“You did not,” Aaron says.

“I did!” Hamilton insists. “Why would I lie? I even remember what I was writing. It was a confidential matter and _no_ , I won’t tell you what it was about, because that’s what _confidential_ means. That’s how we won the war, with loyalty and persistence…”

Aaron’s focus drifts from Hamilton to Al. The kid wears a glazed-over look of defeat, but isn’t fighting to be the topic of conversation again. He meets eyes with Aaron as Hamilton blathers on about himself, and there is an understanding between them, silently agreeing to let Hamilton relive his glory days. Aaron is sure Al knows as well as him that it’s impossible to stop Hamilton once he’s started on something.

* * *

And Hamilton keeps talking until they arrive at the office, and after. He talks about what they should be doing and what they need to do. He goes around the office, investigating stacks of paper and fussing that things have been moved and he tries to do three things at the same time and gets mad when he can’t. It’s as though he’s finally unleashing months of productivity and it’s all being freed at once, like he has to make up for lost time while he was away. He works like he’s running out of time — and he _lives_ like he’s running out of time. He always has, and Aaron never understood why until Hamilton shared his past with him in whispered secrets, like he was afraid he’d run out of time while he was telling it.

Aaron wonders if Hamilton still thinks that it was worth it — going away and spending his precious time with him. If he was worth the risk.

The answer is easy, for Aaron.

Hamilton wears himself down fast, too frantic, and flops down in his chair — a stationary one because he refuses to have one of Jefferson’s swivel chair contraptions in their office. He props his leg on a footstool and rubs his thigh as he looks at the work around him in dismay.

“I don’t know where to start,” Hamilton says, running his hand through his hair. “I should have been back sooner.”

“You could have if you wanted to. I wasn’t stopping you,” Aaron says. Hamilton could have left whenever he wanted, but he stayed… “You didn’t have to chase after me to prove—”

“Don’t be like that, Burr.”

“Be like _what_?” Aaron asks, because he really would like Hamilton to tell him what he thinks he’s doing. They aren’t the best at knowing the other’s intentions. Aaron is probably judging Hamilton’s intentions incorrectly right now — he thinks that Hamilton is upset because he believes Aaron is forcing him to admit that he wants him, therefore trapping him into choosing between him and everything else.

Hamilton looks uneasy, like he wants to talk but can’t — it’s funny how the man shuts up when it’s something he doesn’t want to discuss — and he’s rapidly blinking like when he’s trying not to cry.

“Don’t tarnish it,” Hamilton says, quiet. “Don’t make me try to regret it—”

“I’m not making you do anything.”

“Burr, _please_ —”

“Stop it, both of you.”

Aaron sees Hamilton’s expression change when he remembers that Al is hearing all of this. Hamilton flushes and he’s mildly horrified, and he keeps looking at Aaron like he wants him to do something.

“Don’t worry,” Aaron says, looking over to Al, “I’m not going to shoot your father.”

Al’s eyes widen and he takes a step closer to his father — either to protect him or to get away from Aaron — but Hamilton waves him away, and Al nervously laughs. “You were joking.”

“For now.” Aaron sits at his desk, reclines back in his chair. “But he isn’t far from me if I get a sudden, murderous urge.”

Hamilton laughs, big and loud, putting a hand over his side that aches him.

And just like that, everything is okay between them. _They_ are okay.

Aaron’s mouth tugs up into a grin — he loves Hamilton’s laugh, and he loves to make Hamilton laugh, and he has the suspicion that Hamilton likes to see him happy, too.

Hamilton’s laughter dies down and he wipes at his eyes but then he sees Aaron smiling at him and he starts snickering again.

Al, however, isn’t amused. “Are you done?” he asks. “I thought I came to help you sort out your work, not listen to you and Mr. Burr playfully bicker.”

Hamilton and Aaron look away from each other, like they’ve been reprimanded for doing something wrong. Shame burns down Aaron’s spine like wildfire, hot and quick, spreading along his nerves. They haven’t done anything wrong — not overtly — but he worries his feelings for Hamilton are discernable by the way he looks at him, that it’s became so evident that he cannot conceal it within himself.

This is ridiculous. He can control himself. He tells himself that he won’t look at Hamilton, but the temptation is too strong.

He looks over to Hamilton, and Hamilton is looking at him, too. Hamilton must have been waiting to see if Aaron would look at him — it feels like minutes have passed but it was only seconds — and he smiles, shy, and blushes very prettily.

Hamilton bites his lip and raises his brows and that makes Aaron shy — goddamn him — and he has to look away, lest he say something he shouldn’t in present company.

“Yes, son. Don’t get so excited.” Hamilton reaches into his inner pocket and takes out his glasses, puts them on and regards the papers on his desk. “I don’t know what to do with any of this.”

“You left things unfinished.” Al stands in front of Hamilton’s desk with his arms crossed. “I had to work with what I had. You’re kind of unorganized.”

Hamilton looks up from the paper in his hand and over his glasses at Al. “It’s organized to me.”

“Organized chaos,” Aaron says.

“Nobody asked you,” Hamilton replies, but he sticks his tongue out at Aaron and quickly hides behind the paper.

Idiot.

Aaron busies himself as he listens as Al very patiently explains the notations he made. Clients to respond to, people he had to give referrals to because they couldn’t wait for Hamilton to return, social calls Hamilton should make.

Aaron contemplates his own work. He sees that Al made similar notes for him. The kid did well despite Hamilton’s complaints, and Van Ness left him some passive aggressive notes ( _I’m doing this even though_ somebody _left the country without telling their best friend_ ). Everything is ready for him to work, but he can’t find the motivation, and he finds himself longing for their London lodgings, where the only responsibility he had was making sure Hamilton had enough attention.

He thought things would be different when they come back home, but it’s all the same. The same streets and the same people and the same curtains on the windows and the same purple flower on his desk. He had thought there should be something different, because so much has changed for him — he thought that since he has been so affected, the entire world should change, too.

Aaron traces a vein of a violet’s leaf, down the stem to the damp dirt. It’s been watered recently. He feels guilty — then he feels stupid that he feels guilty — that he had forgotten about it while he was away. But it seems to have fared well. The violet has grown larger, planted in a new pot with new blooms and the color is more vibrant than he remembers.

He supposes that’s something different.

He feels like this flower. Taken root and flourishing into something beautiful because he’s cared for—

“That flower is resilient.”

His thoughts interrupted, Aaron turns to see Al looking at him strangely.

“What?” he asks, curt. Al flinches, taken aback, and Hamilton looks like he wants to smack Aaron for being mean to his son. Aaron didn’t intend to be that rude, it just kind of came out, so he says again, nicer, “What?”

Al doesn’t seem to be upset with him; it feels important that he isn’t. He points to the violet. “My Pops nearly killed it.”

Hamilton makes a sound of disagreement, but doesn’t verbalize it. Of course he almost killed it. He can’t keep a garden worth a damn, so he certainly can’t take care of a finicky flower.

Aaron runs his thumb over one of the purple petals. “I’m not surprised.”

“He neglected it,” Al says, “and then he over attended to it in an effort to revive it. He brought it home and had a panic attack because it was dying—”

“I was not,” Hamilton says, defensive, in that haughty tone he gets when he’s feeling driven into a corner. “I just hated to see something die.”

“I think you intended to kill my flower, but had second thoughts,” Aaron says, because he can’t resist teasing Hamilton. “It was revenge for my attempt of ending your life.”

“Yes, you’ve got me,” Hamilton says in mock defeat. “I spent two years concocting the perfect revenge plot, where I befriended you just so I could kill your houseplant.”

Al ignores his father’s sarcasm and says to Aaron, “He even _sang_ to it.”

Aaron laughs. “No wonder it wanted to wither away!”

Hamilton huffs. “I’m happy you and my son are bonding at my expense.” Aaron would think that he’s mad, but he’s blushing like he does when Aaron tells him he thinks he’s cute.

“Angie fixed the damage.” Al picks up the water pitcher, brings it over to Aaron’s desk and pours some onto the flower, and then rotates the pot so the other side can get direct sunlight from the window. “Sometimes she would come with me to the office so she could tend to it.”

“Then I need to thank Angie when we get home,” Aaron says, “since Alexander was incapable of taking care of things.”

He looks over to Hamilton, who is taking this too seriously. Hamilton looks genuinely upset, his eyes downcast and wearing a frown that makes his lips extra pouty. Aaron wants to go kiss him and make it go away, say, _I didn’t mean it._

But Al speaks first. “Pops wouldn’t let it die,” he says. “He said it was important.”

“Important,” Aaron says, still looking at Hamilton. He watches Hamilton’s expression, how the corner of his mouth twitches and he bites on his lip like he’s trying not to smile but can’t contain it, so he lets it free and smiles bright and wide, so much that it sparkles in his eyes.

* * *

Aaron engrosses himself in his work to get his mind off how much he wishes he were alone with Hamilton. They are many things they could do, if they were alone. Aaron has put a lot of thought into this. If they were alone, Aaron would go over to Hamilton’s desk, sit on the arm of his chair, read over his shoulder, offer suggestions that would make Hamilton frustrated, and then Aaron would softly kiss him until he calms down. Hamilton would complain that he has things to write, and Aaron would slip his hand into Hamilton’s breeches and see how long Hamilton can focus on his work before his cock takes over his brain function. It wouldn’t be long. Hamilton would get hard almost as soon as he’s touched. Aaron would take Hamilton’s cock out from his pants and stroke him quickly and he’d tell Hamilton how fucking sexy he is, and Hamilton would come in an arc onto his polished desk—

Aaron’s hand jolts, blotting ink on the page. Goddamn that Hamilton being so distracting. Aaron should get Hamilton’s attention and say, _look what you made me do._

Hamilton seems to be just as distracted as him. Aaron knows Hamilton is looking at him — he has that tickling sensation on his neck of being observed — but Hamilton keeps turning away when Aaron looks at him. This goes on for a few hours, playing tag with each other’s attention. Aaron tells himself he won’t look at Hamilton, but he gives in once more — and he catches Hamilton’s gaze for a few seconds before Hamilton whips his head forward with a swish of his hair and he goes back to where he left off in his writing.

Aaron could do this all day — flirting is as fun as fucking — but Hamilton cannot. He’s impatient. Aaron is familiar with this restlessness of Hamilton’s, how he can’t focus on anything other than what he wants. Aaron sees it in his eyes. Desperate. Hamilton says his crankiness is because he’s hungry, but Aaron knows he has a different kind of hunger that he wants to be sated.

At noon Hamilton sends out Al to get them lunch. He acts with the urgency of a starving man. He gives Al a handful of cash and escorts him to the door when he asks too many questions.

“If you’re so hungry why don’t I go somewhere closer?” asks Al.

“I have a hankering for a certain type of meat.” Hamilton opens the door, puts his hand to Al’s back and gently pushes him outside.

On the doorstep, Al asks, “But what if they don’t have that today?”

“Improvise.” Hamilton goes to shut the door but Al puts his hand against it to stop it.

“Are you alright, Pops?”

“Yes. Now go,” Hamilton says. “I’ll see you later. Love you,” and he finally gets the door closed, leaving him and Aaron alone.

He keeps his hand on the knob until Al can be heard walking away. He locks it, and turns to face Aaron.

Aaron looks at him from across the room. “You locked the door.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, pulling the curtains shut, shutting out all light except for the lantern on Hamilton’s desk. “And you know why.”

Aaron does know why — Hamilton is devious and uses his wiles to get what he wants, whether it is votes or to get his dick touched. Aaron thinks that’s why the man is greedy, because he expects to have everything he wants. Aaron certainly hasn’t helped matters by giving into Hamilton’s whims, but refusing Hamilton would be refusing himself something he wants, too.

Hamilton slowly walks over to him, the slight but persistent limp emphasizing the sway of his hips. Aaron feels compelled to rise from his chair as Hamilton approaches him. For all his haste, Hamilton moves slowly. Probably because Aaron wants him to hurry. Aaron wants to grab him, make him do what he wants, but he waits. Hamilton carefully props his cane against Aaron’s desk and makes a show of straightening his clothes before facing him.

The dim lighting casts shadows on Hamilton’s face, making him look gaunt and his eyes darker, the deep lines telling his age and hard times he’s experienced, but nothing could ever dull his glow, or his beauty.

Aaron feels like he’s full of lightning bugs when Hamilton smiles at him.

“You’ve been teasing me all day.” Hamilton is close, close enough for their clothes to rustle against one another. Aaron thinks he’s going in for a kiss but he rests his face to his. “Enticing me,” he says, his brushing his lips against Aaron’s ear.

“Have I?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “Sitting over there, writing, giving me that look — yes, that one. Mmm.”

Aaron doesn’t know what _look_ Hamilton is talking about but he knows that feeling, like he wants to shoot him and kiss him at the same time.

“What do you want, Alexander?” Aaron wants _him_ , god help him. He wants him in London, wants him in America, wants him in bed and wants him on sandy shores and wants him against a desk.

“I want you,” Hamilton says, and Aaron doesn’t think there are three words more beautiful, other than those other three words.

“We’re at work.”

“We deserve a break.” Hamilton runs his hand up the seam of Aaron’s breeches, traces the waistband. “We should reward ourselves.”

“What if your kid comes back?” Aaron wouldn’t want Al to become scarred for life because he walked in on his father on his knees, sucking cock. Aaron should protest more and be the responsible one, but Hamilton is really damn convincing when he kisses his neck.

“I sent him to a shop fourteen blocks away,” Hamilton says. “And once he gets there he’ll have to wait for the order, then he’ll have to walk all the way back.” He grins like he thinks he’s very clever. “We have an hour, at the least.”

“You only need ten minutes, at the most.”

“Shut up.” Hamilton looks like he wants to say something more — something to provoke an argument, which is fine with Aaron since they were going to have one eventually — but he makes a desperate, frustrated sound in the back of his throat that’s akin to a whine and says, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day.”

“Then kiss me,” Aaron says.

And Hamilton kisses him like he’s been wanting to all day. He rests his hands on Aaron’s shoulders and leans against him, kisses him so hard that Aaron stumbles back into the desk. Kissing Hamilton makes Aaron weak in the knees, and he reaches back to steady himself while Hamilton continues, incessantly licking at him and nipping at his bottom lip. In his rush, Hamilton forgot to remove his glasses and they press into Aaron’s cheek, hindering him from fully kissing in the way he wants, and they pull apart for Aaron to take them off of Hamilton and place them aside on the desk.

“I thought you said my glasses make me look hot,” Hamilton says.

“Did I say that?” Aaron knows he did, and when he said it — one evening in England, when Hamilton was reading in bed and Aaron told him apropos of nothing _you’re attractive in your glasses_ , and Hamilton had been so flattered by the compliment that he sucked Aaron’s cock while wearing his glasses. Hamilton can be vain and stubborn and doesn’t wear them as often as he should because he thinks he’s better than needing assistance to see clearly, like he’s annoyed that his body is defective and hinders him from reading and writing naturally, but he wore them with a new confidence after Aaron said that he likes them. This let to him giving Aaron flirtatious glances over the frames that confirm Aaron’s fondness for Hamilton bespectacled. They make Hamilton look more _him_ , somehow.

Hamilton is being very patient and very good at waiting, but Aaron doesn’t want to test his limits because they have limited time. He starts where Hamilton left off, kissing Hamilton so fervently that Hamilton gasps with the suddenness of it. Hamilton responds like a fulcrum to a lever — he presses against Aaron like they’re the wax of two candles melted together, and when their groins rub against each other he moans so loudly that Aaron imagines the people across the street hear it and the birds outside are startled into flight. Aaron feels his energy vibrate against him, within him, like the Earth shakes beneath his feet and walls collapse. If there is ruin around them, he does not notice because he is alive, kissing Hamilton.

* * *

They don’t get further than kissing. That’s more than enough for Aaron. He likes kissing Hamilton. He loves how Hamilton goes pliant against him when their lips touch and how Hamilton nearly purrs when he kisses his neck. He loves how Hamilton always kisses like it’s going to be the last time. Kissing is what started all of this — on the last day of his vice presidency, when he had nothing to lose. But that had just been a taste, then. Now he’s become well acquainted with Hamilton — with his wicked mouth, the curves and valleys of his body, sounds of pleasure — and he still has so much more to discover.

They manage to make it through the day without touching each other more than what would be appropriate in front of Hamilton’s son. Work is busy enough to be distracted with how much he wants Hamilton, but it’s not as easy to ignore in the close quarters of the carriage on their way home.

Hamilton sits next to him instead of Al, and isn’t mindful to stay to his space. It’s hot and stuffy enough without Hamilton pressing against him, but Hamilton has his legs spread wide, taking up as much room as possible.

“Could you sit like a gentleman?” asks Aaron. He pushes Hamilton’s leg away from where it presses against his, but then Hamilton lets them flop back open.

“It’s too hot,” Hamilton says. “My package needs air. My precious stones need protecting.”

Al makes a pained noise and looks like he would risk jumping out of the moving carriage rather than listen to his father’s suggestive language. Aaron is sympathetic; Hamilton doesn’t have to be crude because it’s warm. He doesn’t understand how someone who grew up in the Caribbean can’t tolerate a New York summer.

But Aaron knows what Hamilton is doing — he’s trying to make him lose control. It’s working, and Hamilton knows it. If they were alone, Aaron would push Hamilton’s collar aside and lick at his sweaty, salty skin and bite him until he bruises, seal it with a kiss, and then put his collar back to hide where he marked him.

Hamilton knows that Aaron wants him. He smiles, pleased with himself.

Aaron can’t have that.

“Perhaps you should be neutered, like other animals,” Aaron says.

Hamilton narrows his eyes at him as he slowly crosses one leg over the other.

“You’re just jealous,” Hamilton says.

“Yes, that’s it,” Aaron replies, dryly. He’s learned that most times, it’s better to let Hamilton think that he’s won. Hamilton would argue until he runs out of breath, so Aaron doesn’t waste his. Aaron can _wait._

And he does — he waits until they’re home no more than ten minutes, chatting with Eliza and the girls before he places a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder and says, “Alexander, may I have a word?”

“Certainly. You may have many words.” Hamilton stands and gestures for Aaron to go in front of him. “After you.”

Hamilton has that smirk that Aaron both hates and adores, where he’s reminded of Hamilton in his boyish youth and when he was charmed the first time he saw Hamilton — when Aaron was going to walk away but something made him stop and reconsider. He often thinks about how different his life would’ve been if he didn’t offer that mouthy fellow orphan a drink.

Hamilton follows him with the confident saunter of a man who knows he’s wanted. He exudes arrogance. Aaron can feel it, like a breeze that finds its way around his collar, and while he knows he shouldn’t give Hamilton attention because it’ll only encourage more of this behavior, he turns to look at him. He just can’t help himself.

Hamilton stops in his tracks. He’s surprised for only a moment — then he sticks out his chest, proud, and Aaron can’t decide if he’d rather slap him or kiss him.

“Stop that,” Aaron says.

“Stop what?” Hamilton asks. Aaron can _see_ Hamilton’s conceit grow impossibly bigger the more he looks at him.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Aaron grabs Hamilton’s wrist and pulls him into his study, shutting the door behind them. Hamilton laughs and Aaron would think he’s mocking him if he didn’t know Hamilton is trying to rile him up more. Aaron shoves at Hamilton’s shoulders, pins him against the door, so quickly that Hamilton gasps. He expects Hamilton to struggle free but he’s complaisant, locking his arms around Aaron and pulling him close.

“Has it been hard to resist me?” Hamilton pushes his pelvis forward and rubs against Aaron. “It feels like _something_ is hard.”

“Shut up,” Aaron growls, but Hamilton can’t talk much with Aaron’s mouth on his.

* * *

Now that Aaron has Hamilton, he doesn’t want to be without him. He’s too used to being with him to be apart. He’s with him all day, and then all evening, too — and that still isn’t enough. They spend their days working side by side at their office and make excuses for frequent breaks to work at each other with their hands and mouths. They can do what they want; they are their own bosses. And when they go home, they give each other flirty glances across the room until they excuse themselves to be alone.

There’s a lot of kissing. Aaron thinks he kisses Hamilton more than he’s kissed any other lover. He’s usually more interested in the act of sex than anything else, but Hamilton is a really good kisser. Really, _really_ good. Hamilton has lips made for kissing, full and pouty and they turn a pretty red when they’ve been bitten. Aaron likes the way Hamilton puckers his lips for another kiss and he likes to trace the shape of the delicate cupid’s bow with his tongue. It always starts with kissing. Exchanging tender passionate kisses in their office, empty rooms in the house, in the garden behind a tall oak. It always starts out innocent — innocent as it can be, with them — but it turns dirty fast, rutting against each other and leaving with their breeches too tight until they can continue later.

Aaron likes a quick fuck, but Hamilton is like a fine meal and must be appreciated. He won’t touch Hamilton until he’s undressed and laid out under him, even though Hamilton begs for it so prettily — desperate _please Burr I want you_ and his eyes are heavy-lidded with want and he’s writhing like he’s been neglected for days. Aaron refrains from giving Hamilton what he wants just long enough to make it better when he does. He swears Hamilton’s cock tastes better when Hamilton is desperate for it.

They move flawlessly together, like a minuet. Two melodies becoming one. Aaron never cared much for music, before Alex.

In London, Hamilton tried to teach Aaron how to play the piano on the one in the inn’s common room, but his hands couldn’t work that way. Hamilton had said that Aaron couldn’t do it because he was afraid to make mistakes. _You have to make mistakes to learn_ , Hamilton said, playing like he’s never made a mistake in his life.

But perhaps what Aaron likes most is when Hamilton nestles up with him after they’re sated and sticky, fussing until Aaron puts his arm around him and gently kisses him. It never lasts for long, though — Hamilton leaves Aaron’s bed without an apology and dresses with his back to Aaron.

Hamilton never stays the night. He always spends it with Eliza. And that’s _fine_. Aaron has accepted that Hamilton will always pick Eliza before him. As long as he’s a choice, he can’t be mad — it has to be this way, because Hamilton can’t go to bed with them at the same time. They’ve tried that once.

So — Hamilton comes to him in the evening, with no questions asked. Aaron tires Hamilton out, makes him come until he’s dry, and then sends him off to be with his wife. Aaron wonders how Hamilton explains that, how he isn’t able to perform his husbandly duties to his full potential. Aaron realizes that’s rather cruel of him and he shouldn’t punish Eliza, but he realizes that she probably enjoys a break from Hamilton relentlessly humping her all the time. He’s doing her a favor by sucking her husband’s cock when he comes begging for it, and returning the favor when he begs to get his mouth on his, too.

But it’s not like Eliza and Hamilton don’t have sex, because Aaron hears their lovemaking through the wall most evenings. And some mornings. Apparently, Hamilton has more fortitude than he let on. The lazy bastard just likes to tap out with him once he’s been fulfilled and his cock has had enough attention.

Aaron would be lying if he said he doesn’t stroke off to the sounds of Hamilton and Eliza. His imagination is quite creative. He has no shame.

Not really.

He has no reason to feel guilty. The arrangement works for all of them — Hamilton is still as devoted to Eliza, and Aaron has this _thing_ with Hamilton. Full disclosure absolves them of the infringement of fidelity. Not that Aaron was thinking about fidelity when he kissed Hamilton the first time. He doesn’t really give a damn if someone is married or not. He’s been with plenty of married women. When Theodosia had told him that she was married when he began to pursue her, his reply was, _“So?”_ He thinks he does married women a service when they come to him for sex, because they’re obviously not getting it from their husbands.

So, this guilt he has being with Hamilton is new. It’s partly because Hamilton is a _man_ and he doesn’t think he’ll ever accept it with the same grace as Hamilton does, but he feels most terrible when he realizes that he likes Eliza. He’s never encountered culpability in his affairs — he’s never cared how the other person feels — but Eliza is good and lovely and she doesn’t deserve this.

But he isn’t sorry enough to end it. It’s the most serious relationship he’s had since…he doesn’t want to admit. Hamilton doesn’t show any intention of stopping either, and Eliza has said she knows asking them to end it won’t do any good. That would be like asking the sun not to return over the horizon in the morning.

So, Aaron tolerates the guilt that agitates inside him when Eliza gives them an unreadable but knowing look as they excuse themselves to go upstairs and “talk” about “business.” He lets guilt become something else when Hamilton kisses him and takes off his clothes and lies down on the bed with him, and then later, it becomes something else when Hamilton kisses him again and leaves him alone in the bed that smells like them to go join Eliza for the evening. Aaron knows Hamilton tells her about him and what they do — he knows by the way she blushes when he passes her in the hall in the mornings — but that’s fine.

They aren’t fooling her, or themselves.

* * *

Aaron keeps his promises — or he tries to. He doesn’t often make impossible promises, even though he makes them anyway, like _I’ll help you become President_ , because optimism gets the better of him occasionally. He isn’t entirely cynical.

Writing to Bentham is a task he wants to finish. He did promise Bentham he’d keep in contact in exchange for paying their way home, but he genuinely likes Bentham. Bentham has a unique outlook on things, and Aaron likes talking with him, about everything from the weather to the techniques of using your mouth on a man.

He admits he misses Bentham more than he thought he would. Bentham must miss him ( _and Hamilton_ , Aaron thinks, begrudgingly) because he’s already sent Aaron multiple letters, which he must’ve sent not long after they left. In these letters, Bentham asks about how Aaron is, and how Hamilton is, but most importantly — Bentham’s words — how are they, _together._ _I’m curious_ , Bentham wrote. _Tell me everything. Illustrate if you’re feeling particularly creative._

Aaron won’t share that. He couldn’t. There are no words or sketches that could describe his relationship with Hamilton.

 _There is much to be said that I cannot put down in print,_ Aaron writes, _but it behooves me that I must thank you for your advice, as we—_

“Oh,” Aaron moans, his hand twitching, blotting ink in the middle of his sentence.

“Distracted?”

Aaron looks under his desk, where Hamilton is proudly on his knees in front of him with a flushed face and a smile and his hands on Aaron’s cock and saliva dripping from his lips and looking like a depraved mess.

So, Aaron finally has got to live out his fantasy of Hamilton sucking him off while he works. He hardly had to say anything, just, “Have you ever thought about, you know, under the desk—?” and Hamilton was shoving Aaron aside so he could crawl into position. Hamilton had bumped his head and Aaron doubted that maybe the logistics of it wouldn’t work out, but then he felt Hamilton undoing his breeches and then those wonderful hands on his cock.

“What if someone comes in?” Aaron had asked, his voice gruff as Hamilton worked him to a full hardness with his tongue.

“Be casual,” Hamilton said. “They won’t know I’m down here unless you can’t control yourself.”

Control.

That’s what Aaron is trying to do, but it’s very difficult when Hamilton is sucking him so well he can hardly see straight.

“I’m fine. Not distracted,” Aaron says. No, he isn’t distracted at all by Hamilton’s pretty mouth or his pretty eyes or—

“Then continue.” Hamilton puts the curve of Aaron’s cock in his hand, licks broadly from base to tip. Aaron’s cock jerks involuntarily towards Hamilton’s mouth, and Hamilton catches the head of it on his tongue. Hamilton smiles that awful, wonderful smile that makes Aaron’s heart and his cock ache simultaneously, and really, Aaron could hate him, if he didn’t.

Aaron clears his throat, dips his quill in ink and puts it to paper, refocusing his thoughts.

“Alexander is doing fine,” Aaron says, narrating as he writes. “We are hard at work—”

“We certainly are.” Hamilton squeezes the thickest part of Aaron’s cock, as if demonstrating, and when Aaron looks below he sees that the front of Hamilton’s breeches are stretched tight trying to accommodate his boner.

Aaron slips his foot out of his shoe and rubs it against Hamilton’s crotch. He watches Hamilton moan and shut his eyes in the relief of his cock finally getting attention. Aaron is tempted to strip Hamilton down and lay him on the floor and rut on top of him and kiss him until he’s lost his breath in Hamilton’s — but he just catches Hamilton’s rosy swollen lip, wiping away his own slick with his thumb.

“I didn’t ask you,” Aaron says. He expects Hamilton to say something — to argue — but Hamilton grins at him, filthy, and sucks his cock until he can’t think of anything other than him.

* * *

It’s quite inconvenient how much he thinks of Hamilton. He thinks of him when he isn’t around, which isn’t often — only when Hamilton has left his bed for the night, leaving a warm empty place next to him. He thinks of Hamilton when he’s with him, from the early morning on their way to work until the evening when they share a nightcap after dinner followed by getting naked together. He thinks of kissing that delicate place on Hamilton’s neck and how sweet he tastes there, and he thinks of how Hamilton is hiding a bruise that he put there under his cravat. He thinks of Hamilton and what he’d say and then Aaron remembers that Hamilton is _right there_ and he can talk to him any time he wants.

_His._

Mostly.

* * *

Hamilton occupies so much of Aaron’s time that he neglects other important people in his life. Van Ness complains that he never sees him anymore and while Aaron does miss the guy, he only truly misses spending time with his dearest daughter, Theo.

They talk, of course, but they don’t _talk._ They haven’t since he’s been back in America. He’s usually forthcoming about everything in his life, the good and the bad, but there are too many things that he doesn’t know how to explain. Unfortunately, they both possess the Burr-ish trait of reservation, so they end up talking about nothing while the need to share with the other grows more and more. Aaron worries that he will never be able to speak honestly to Theo ever again, but luckily Theo has enough of her mother’s bluntness to counteract his trait of reservation.

Aaron realizes later that she had planned it. She picks an afternoon where all the Hamiltons are away doing a family thing in town, and she makes a kettle of tea and asks Aaron to join her in the sitting room with the big windows that look out on the estate. She knows that he’ll never refuse her company, and an afternoon chat isn’t out of the ordinary, so he’s caught unawares when she sets her teacup on the table and asks—

“Are we just not going to talk about it?”

Aaron looks at her as unflinchingly as she looks at him. “Talk about what?” he asks. If she’s going to start this, he expects her to follow through.

“Well,” Theo begins, poised, which tells Aaron that he’s put a lot of thought into this discussion. She falters for a moment, but then takes a deep breath, and begins again. “I told you that I love Angie, and you haven’t said anything about it.”

He hasn’t. Apparently, it’s not one of those things that go away if you don’t address it. “I acknowledged it in my reply to you.”

“You wrote _love is complex_ , and then went on to talk about the weather and how the manners of whores differ in England,” Theo says. “I thought that maybe you were being cautious what you put in a letter in case it were misplaced, but you didn’t say anything when you came home. You’ve been more circumspect than usual.”

“Theo.”

“I know you haven’t forgotten because you act very awkward when I’m around Angie, and the only conclusion I can surmise is that you’re ashamed of me—”

“Of course not.” Aaron is hurt that she would even think that he could find fault with her. “But I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Theo frowns, grim. “I want my Papa to approve of me, and my choices,” she says. “And I want to talk to him about my life, because I’ve never been in love.”

Love. Aaron has forgotten what that feels like. It’s buried underground, like the only woman he’s ever loved.

“I need to be drunk for this conversation,” Aaron says.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“And?” Aaron gets up, goes to the liquor cabinet, pours a nice portion of Hamilton’s favorite brandy for himself, and then after a moment of consideration, one for Theo. She takes it from him with grace, and drinks from it like a man.

Aaron sits back down across from her, drinks half his glass in one go. “So you love Angie Hamilton.”

“Yes.”

“And she loves you?”

“Yes,” Theo says, dreamy.

A fool could see that she’s in love.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Aaron asks, because he knows it’s been going on for a while. Love like this doesn’t spring up overnight; it grows, slow, until you realize it’s been there all along. “You waited until I was gone to tell me. I felt like you didn’t trust me.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Theo says. “Truly. But Angie made me promise I wouldn’t tell! She doesn’t understand how you and I share with each other.”

“You told Alexander,” Aaron says. “I had to read it in a letter while he gloated that he knew of it before me.”

Theo smiles and shakes her head at him. “Don’t be jealous, Papa. Mr. Hamilton just happened to be there when I needed someone to talk to, and that’s only because you left, which _I_ had to find out through a _letter_.”

“Touché.”

Theo takes a drink, longer than the first. When she looks up at Aaron, he sees that her eyes are slightly unfocused with the beginnings of inebriation.

He’s made his only child into a day-drinker.

“Is that all you have to say?” Theo asks.

“No,” Aaron replies. “But the only things I care about are if you’re happy—”

“I am. Insanely so.”

“—and if she fulfills your needs.”

“If you mean sex, then yes. My needs are well met,” Theo says. She drinks deeply from her brandy. “Thankfully, I had a vague idea what to do, but we were creative enough to figure out the rest.”

“Good.” Aaron is more casual talking about sex than most people are. When Theo was old enough, he gave her a talk because no child of his would be clueless when it comes to sex. His advice? _Have fun, don’t get pregnant before you’re married, and if a man hurts you I will kill him._

At least with another woman, unexpected pregnancy isn’t a concern.

“What about you?” Theo asks, cavalier. “You haven’t talked about you and Mr. Hamilton.”

“We are fine,” Aaron says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t know if he will ever be entirely _fine_ with Hamilton, but it’s close enough, for them.

“There’s more than that,” Theo says, critically. “I see how you look at him. All starry-eyed and _adoring._ It’s cute, but kind of nauseating. Especially Mr. Hamilton. His glances towards you are more…intentional, like he can’t control his foxiness. He isn’t very subtle.”

“You want to talk about Mr. Hamilton’s foxiness?”

Theo blushes scarlet, more than she would normally but the drink must be getting to her — but she composes herself quickly.

“I know you’re fulfilled with him,” Theo says, “and I think you’re happy. He makes you happy.”

“I do not love Alexander,” Aaron says.

“I didn’t say you did.” Theo smiles at him very Burr-like. “But we can talk about that, if you want—”

“We weren’t talking about me.” Aaron doesn’t want to talk about him, or that he said he doesn’t love Hamilton, or how he kind of feels guilty for saying that even though it’s true.

“Okay.” Theo turns up the glass, drinks the rest in one swallow, sets it down on the table. “You’re disappointed in me.”

“Oh, Theo,” Aaron mutters, “I could never be disappointed in you. I would have liked to have grandchildren, but more than anything, I want you to be happy. I’d never shame you for finding pleasure, conventional or not. I only wish it wasn’t with a Hamilton, but I suppose you take after me too much. Drawn to their…peculiarities. And as for you being in love with Angie…”

“You are disappointed,” Theo says. “You’d rather me marry Al.”

“Because he’s polite, wealthy, well-educated, and easily led.” Aaron sighs. “I wanted things to be easy for you, and Angie…is not going to be easy.”

Theo purses her lips together. “Well,” she says, “I’m not easy either. I think that makes us perfect for each other. We’ll never be bored.”

That sounds like how he speaks of Hamilton.

“Just don’t shoot her,” he says.

“That seemed to work out for you, though,” Theo says. “Because it wasn’t until after you shot Mr. Hamilton that you two—”

“I’m getting another drink,” Aaron says, cutting her off. “Do you want one?”

* * *

It appears as though Hamilton is serious about the presidential campaign. He hasn’t announced anything, but he’s setting the course for him to be successful. He’s reconnecting with old friends in the government, schmoozing with congressmen, doing favors for people who he can call on later for a favor in return. He’s making himself a presence in government again, so that when he’s ready to get back in, it’ll be like he never left.

Aaron would be annoyed, if Hamilton weren’t involving him. Hamilton has meetings at their office with congressmen who are in the city for the day, and he drags Aaron (willingly) into the conversation saying, _This is my partner, Aaron Burr,_ with emphasis on _partner_ and with a big smile. Thankfully, everyone is naïve enough to take it to mean business partner, when Hamilton probably means it as the more intimate way that they are _partners._

He doesn’t know if he’s madder about Hamilton’s dangerous puns, or the fact that Hamilton is forcing him to be social. He expects the meetings to go terribly when he’s involved, but…everything is fine. They laugh at his jokes and compliment the hard work he’s been doing. They’ve all but forgotten his disastrous vice presidency, and that that he nearly murdered his _partner._

It’s Hamilton’s influence. He has always had a way of winning people over with charm and fancy words. Aaron hated that — it made him blind with self-righteous envy — until right around the time he started wanting to kiss Hamilton. Then he was able to appreciate how Hamilton amazes and astonishes.

He wants Hamilton to succeed.

And he feels like he must help him do so.

Hamilton works too much — Aaron liked it better when all he did was lounge naked in bed with him all day. Yes, work and future endeavors are important, but so is spending time with him.

One evening when he really wants to be with Hamilton, Hamilton isn’t with the rest of the family. He isn’t with Eliza, because she’s teaching Theo needlepoint with Angie. Aaron checks in the kitchen because Hamilton does enjoy a late-night snack, but he isn’t there either, and he isn’t in the library so—

He finds Hamilton in his office, writing by candlelight.

Aaron quietly pulls up a chair next to Hamilton and sits, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to interrupt because Hamilton’s ideas are like a river — they don’t stop — and Aaron likes to watch him work. He likes how Hamilton’s mouth parts when he’s thinking and he likes how his nose scrunches up when he makes a mistake and he likes the thoughtful noises he doesn’t know he’s making and he likes how he pushes his glasses up when start to slip down his nose and he likes when he sometimes smears ink on his nose.

He could sit here all night, watching Hamilton.

After some time — twenty minutes, maybe — Hamilton acknowledges Aaron. He glances to the side and smiles at him before going back to his writing.

“Hello, Burr,” Hamilton says, sweet as buttermilk.

Burr leans in, kisses him on the cheek. “What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter.”

“Whom are you writing to?” Aaron asks; he feels no qualms being nosey because Hamilton is always looking over his shoulder when he writes. He takes a peek at the first page of the letter that’s to the side and drying, and he nearly falls out of his chair. “ _Dear J. Adams_? You’re writing to John Adams?”

Hamilton looks at him as though he’s disgusted with the thought of willingly writing to Adams. “John _Quincy_ ,” Hamilton says, correcting him. “He asked me for advice.”

“Doesn’t his father hate you?” Aaron asks.

“Hate is a strong word.” Hamilton grins. “That said, I _hate_ John Adams.”

Aaron doesn’t blame him. Most of the disgraceful things Adams said about Hamilton were uncalled for, like _flea-bitten Caribbean riffraff._ But then, Hamilton brought it on himself, taunting Adams in the press like he did.

“I hope Adams doesn’t know you’re corresponding with his son,” Aaron says.

“I hope he does.” Hamilton signs his name at the bottom of the letter, places the quill down. “John Quincy is a grown man and can do what he wants. He’s all right. I don’t know how he can be related to that horrible man. But all of Adams’ children are odd. He blames me somewhat for corrupting his other son, but he was already troubled when he met me.”

“Charles?” Aaron asks. “Didn’t he die a few years ago?”

“Yes.” Hamilton frowns. “He was a law clerk for me before I was the Treasury Secretary. He was smart and had potential, but he wasn’t at peace within himself. He hated his life and was an alcoholic and was in love with Mulligan’s son—”

“ _What?_ ”

“They lived together, and I think they were, you know, together. Like us,” Hamilton says. “But Charles’ parents wanted them apart, so the boys pleaded with Von Steuben to take them in. The Baron did, bless him, because he was a supporter of men who like men.”

“You mean…he…?”

Hamilton laughs. “You’re telling me you didn’t know Von Steuben preferred men? I thought everyone in the Army knew.”

“I wasn’t interested in gossip,” Aaron says. In the war, he didn’t have a job where he stayed in camp and wrote letters for people more important than him and his uniform never got dirty — Hamilton’s was always immaculate — and was able to think of something else than the war. Aaron was dying of heat stroke on a battlefield while Hamilton complained about being stuck inside and not allowed the chance to die. However, Hamilton never complained about the perks; he was in Washington’s favor and knew about everything before it happened, and apparently, had a lot of fun fucking that idiot Laurens in secret in their private quarters. Aaron never liked Laurens much, and now he likes him even less. Sure, he might be jealous that Laurens had Hamilton so young, but then he had to go die and break Alexander’s heart…

“Anyway,” Hamilton says. “Good ol’ John and Abigail weren’t pleased with Charles’ unsavory life choices. I lost contact with him when I worked for the Treasury, and then John and I became enemies. When Charles drank himself to death, John said I should’ve kept him away from that nasty crowd, but I knew he was only trying to figure out how to handle losing a son. I know how…”

His voice trails off, breaks.

Aaron kisses him on the cheek, then on the mouth, slow and sweet, as though he could take away the pain and guilt that Hamilton still feels about Philip’s death. Hamilton kisses him in return, but then pulls away, not allowing himself to be swept away in the emotions. He wipes at his eyes and clears his throat.

“John and I may have our differences, but I have nothing against Quincy,” Hamilton says. “Plus, he’s a senator.”

Ah, there it is. “You want to use him,” Aaron says.

Hamilton’s mouth turns up into a grin. “Well, he is influential with the Federalists and has friends within the Democratic-Republicans. We could use someone like him during the campaign.”

Aaron shakes his head, because Hamilton never stops. Hamilton is always thinking ahead. Aaron supposes that’s what got him ahead in life.

“You really think you can win?” Aaron asks. He believes in Hamilton, unequivocally, but that isn’t enough for a miracle.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t,” Hamilton says. “I _have_ to win. It would be humiliating to lose the presidential election.”

What a goddamn idiot. Hamilton can be such an insensitive jerk, sometimes.

“Yes, it is humiliating,” says Aaron, staring blankly at Hamilton until Hamilton’s eyes widen with realization about what he said.

“Oh shit, _you_ lost.”

“Yes.” Aaron figures it wouldn’t be good to say, _and it was kind of your fault_ , because he isn’t in the mood for a row this late in the evening. But he won’t let Hamilton off that easily. “However, there was an annoying immigrant who caused me some issues.”

Hamilton must not be in the mood for a fight either, because he just shrugs. “Maybe that annoying immigrant had his reasons.”

“Maybe.” If Hamilton didn’t speak out against him in 1800, then Aaron never would have been unforgivably angry with him and he never would have challenged Hamilton to a duel and then they wouldn’t have everything in between then and now.

“Alex,” Aaron says, but Hamilton puts his finger on Aaron’s lips.

“Don’t,” Hamilton says, and he kisses him with more confidence than Aaron has ever had in his life.

* * *

“We’re going to Albany,” Hamilton says to Aaron at breakfast, apropos of nothing.

Aaron doesn’t look up from the morning paper. “Alright.”

Hamilton makes such a displeased sound — a grumble of something that aren’t quite words— that Aaron does look at him. “What, Alexander?”

It’s just the two of them, sitting across from each other. It’s Saturday and they started the day late — Hamilton crawled into Aaron’s bed at dawn and rubbed his cock against Aaron’s ass and nibbled at his neck until Aaron gave into what Hamilton wanted, and what he wanted too. By the time they got each other off, rested, used their mouths on each other again, dressed and went downstairs, the kids and Eliza had already finished eating and were busy with the day’s activities.

“You don’t have an opinion?” Hamilton asks. “I thought you’d complain about the distance, or the weather, or that you’d rather stay at home and be _boring_ ,” he says, dragging out the vowels of the last word.

Aaron shrugs. “I don’t mind those things — the weather or the bumpy roads or the uncomfortable conditions — so long as…” He pauses, bites his tongue. “So much as the company makes up for it.”

Hamilton blushes prettily, looking down, bashful. What Aaron said is true — bad things are less terrible when Hamilton is with him. He just wants to be with Hamilton, and he’s glad that Hamilton wants to be with him.

“Well, I—uh. You…hmm.” Hamilton stumbles over his words, blushes deeper, and tucks his hair behind his ear. “Anyway. If we leave in a few hours we can make it to Albany late tonight, then we can rest and be ready for tomorrow.”

“Sure.” At least the hours in a carriage will give him some alone time with Hamilton, and it’ll be the first time he’d be able to sleep next to Hamilton all night long since they got off the ship from London. “Why are we going to Albany?”

Hamilton pulls a plate of leftovers from breakfast towards him and picks at it, eating with his hands. “For a funeral. Judge Paterson died a couple days ago and I thought it’d be a good chance to talk to government people I haven’t seen in a while. And to show our respects, of course. I…”

Aaron stops listening, Hamilton’s voice fades out and all he can hear is his heartbeat thrumming in his ears and he wants to laugh and throw up at the same time and all he can smell are cloves and someone is holding onto him—

“Burr?”

Aaron nearly jumps out of his skin, jerking his arm away — but it was only Hamilton touching him, and now he looks so concerned that Aaron wants to punch him.

“I’m fine,” Aaron says before Hamilton can ask what’s wrong with him. He is _fine._

He takes a deep breath. Fine.

Hamilton raises his brows, skeptical. “If you say so,” he says, and Aaron’s reaction is all but forgotten in the rush to prepare for their trip.

There isn’t anything to discuss, anyway.

* * *

Hamilton can’t notice if Aaron is acting differently, because he’s too busy talking with his children and promising that he’ll be gone only a couple of days this time, and trying to decide which outfits he should bring.

Not that Aaron is acting differently, or should be. It was all a long time ago, and it wasn’t really anything. He hasn’t thought of William Paterson in years, and hadn’t spoken to him in more than a decade. They were _friends._ Paterson said they were; he made Aaron call him _Bill_ when they were alone, and made every arrangement for them to be alone. Aaron remembers once when he brought a classmate over to Paterson’s instead of coming alone like he promised. Paterson had wrote him a letter about how _displeased_ he was and the next time he saw him, he…

But the past is the past. He’s fine. It is just an odd thing that happened. He’s experienced worse tragedies than a friend who didn’t have boundaries.

Aaron bids the others goodbye, and climbs into the carriage with Hamilton, mentally preparing himself for the journey. He half listens to Hamilton’s mindless chatter about Albany citizens being so different from city folk like them that they might as well be from a different country, and looks out the window at the passing countryside. They are still many hours away. He knows Paterson’s estate; he went there a few times in his life.

“Do I bore you?”

Aaron turns to Hamilton. “No,” he says. “I was thinking of something else.”

Hamilton goes to speak, but then closes his mouth into a firm line, and then shuts the curtain of the partition with his cane so the driver cannot see them. After looking out the windows and deciding there are nothing but trees on either side, he takes Aaron’s hand in his and lays his head on his shoulder.

“What’s troubling you, my dearest Burr?” Hamilton brings Aaron’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “And don’t say nothing is the matter. You’ve been more reticent than usual today, and I know you didn’t want to talk about it but—”

“Then why are you asking?” Aaron is pleased Hamilton noticed he is _off_ , but that doesn’t mean Hamilton is entitled to know anything about him. He feels himself getting defensive — he reminds himself that Hamilton means well. He wants to help him. He’d never want to hurt him.

“Is it because it’s a funeral?” Hamilton asks. “Are you thinking of when your wife died?”

“What the hell, Alexander?”

“I understand,” Hamilton says. “It’s hard for me. I think of Philip. I collapsed at his service. Laying him to rest was like losing him all over again. That’s when I realized he was really gone.”

“Alex.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk about myself. Theo told me that’s one of my worst qualities—”

“ _Alex._ ”

“What I meant was,” Hamilton says, softly, “is that you can talk to me. I know you aren’t used to having someone who cares, but _I_ care. You’re sad, and…” He toys with Aaron’s shirt, fiddling with the lace, and then looks at Aaron with so much honesty it makes him ache. “You’re sad and I don’t like it.”

Bless him. He’s so dumb he wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t explain why being forced to call Paterson _Bill_ made him feel slimy, or that sometimes he feels sixteen and helpless when someone grabs his arm, or why despite every reason not to, he isn’t particularly bothered about it.

Aaron squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “Don’t worry about me.”

Hamilton lets out a _humph_. “I’ll worry as much as I want to.”

Aaron smiles. That’s his Alex.

“I didn’t expect you to listen to me,” Aaron says, and he doesn’t let go of Hamilton’s hand and they talk about something else entirely.

* * *

They arrive in Albany after midnight. They would have gotten there sooner if Hamilton didn’t have so many beers at dinner so he wouldn’t have to keep stopping to relieve himself — but they eventually get there.

Hamilton checks into the inn while Aaron struggles with their luggage. Why Hamilton had to bring so many things, like his portable desk, Aaron does not know. They’re only going to be here one full day. The plan is to go to the funeral, let Hamilton chat with congressmen, make sure the guy is actually dead, and then go back home. He’d rather not waste more of his time on Paterson.

The inn is nice. They’ve stayed in it before when they traveled for work. It has a bed large enough for two grown men to sleep with space between them. However this time, that isn’t necessary — as soon as they get to their room, they undress and get into bed, get as close as possible, and lazily bring each other off. By the time Aaron fetches a cloth to clean themselves up so they won’t leave incriminating evidence on the sheets, Hamilton is half asleep. Hamilton smiles with his eyes shut as Aaron wipes come off his belly, says, “I like you, Aaron Burr,” and then turns over and falls asleep.

Travel always exhausts him. And really good orgasms.

Aaron blows out the candle and opens the window, and then crawls into bed with Hamilton. Hamilton makes a snuffling noise in his sleep but doesn’t wake. Aaron pulls the cover up to Hamilton’s shoulders because he knows how he gets chilled during the night, and presses his front to Hamilton’s back and kisses his neck. Hamilton is warm — except for his cold feet, which have found their way against Aaron’s — and he smells like safety. Hamilton makes another one of those dear noises, and Aaron snuggles against him, and sleeps, dreamless.

* * *

Hamilton wakes up before Aaron, taking over an hour to prepare, shining his shoes and cane and trimming his beard. Aaron dozes on and off, watching Hamilton primp in his clothes and brush his hair until it’s shiny smooth. It reminds him of when they were in London, and in the haze of sleepiness he thinks they are there — but the view outside is wrong and the air feels different and the room is too nice. Then he remembers where they are and why they’re here, and then the moment is ruined, until Hamilton notices him staring, and he grins at him in a way he never sees him do for anyone else.

Aaron closes his eyes, feigning sleep, as Hamilton comes towards him and kneels on the bed, leaning over to kiss him.

“I know you’re awake,” Hamilton says against his ear. “Get ready.”

“Ugh.” Aaron would rather convince Hamilton to stay with him in bed with him all day. He grabs Hamilton’s arm and tries to pull him on top of him, but Hamilton shakes him off.

“I’m sorry you have to be social,” Hamilton says, and then, his voice lower. “I’ll make it up to you later.” He slips his hand under the blanket, trails his fingers along the curve of Aaron’s hip. “I’ll give you something to look forward to.”

“You’ll give it to me anyway,” Aaron mumbles.

“Well,” Hamilton says, not denying his eternal thirst for Aaron’s cock, “the sooner you get up, the sooner we can go do what we came here to do, then we can come back and have lots of sex.”

Hamilton has a point.

Aaron rolls out of bed and washes his face and dresses in standard funeral black. Hamilton fixes his collar for him as he fusses that his coat is wrinkled, but then pulls him in for a kiss.

“I know why you look like a mess,” Hamilton says. “You wanted me to look better in comparison.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Aaron replies. “Jerk.”

Hamilton smiles. “Asshole.”

That lightening bug feeling glows in Aaron’s tummy.

* * *

Paterson is put to rest on his family’s plot. As a federal judge — and a wealthy man — his service is extravagant, and with many people in attendance, including the congressmen that Hamilton had expected. Hamilton has to temper his excitement and maintain a solemn composure during the eulogy, but from his glazed over expression, Aaron knows that he’s preparing for conversations in his mind he’s going to have with others later. Aaron has to keep from laughing aloud during dirges about Paterson’s immortal soul.

Aaron couldn’t care less about the man’s soul. He stopped caring about Paterson and what he thought a long time ago. He tries to find compassion within himself to care about Paterson because he’s dead and despite what happened, he was a big part of his life, but it isn’t there, and the guilt that he used to have for eliminating him from his life isn’t there, either.

He’s free to care for who really matters. A few _true_ friends. Theodosia — forever. Their daughter. Hamilton — Alex — and surprisingly, his entire family.

He brushes his hand against Hamilton’s, lightly enough that it could be thought as a mistake if anyone were to see. Hamilton turns his around so their palms touch. How great it is to reach out, and someone be there to be reaching out, too.

* * *

The service ends and Aaron loses Hamilton in the crowd of black-clothed mourners. He would go after him, but he doesn’t want to socialize — in fact, he avoids eye contact with everyone and glowers so nobody will make the mistake of talking to him. He doesn’t want to talk about how great Paterson was.

He is dead. There is finality in that — dead in a wooden box in a hole in the ground and already starting to rot. He died just like every one else has, and will.

“Hey.”

Aaron turns and Hamilton is there, accompanied with a few men he vaguely recognizes. Aaron nods, acknowledging each one politely so he won’t mess up whatever it is Hamilton has going. He knows Hamilton has a purpose — he’s talking animatedly about something and is using his _I’m speaking to an idiot but I must be nice_ voice. Aaron is distracted watching Hamilton’s hands while he speaks, but then he hears Hamilton mention his name:

“And have you met my legal partner and good friend, Aaron Burr?”

Well, that’s one way to introduce him. He could also say _man who almost killed me_ or perhaps _man who has the best cock I’ve ever tasted._ That would be a conversation starter.

“No, but I know a lot about him,” says one of the men.

“Sure.” Aaron smiles. Many people think they know him by what they’ve read in newspapers — that he’s a traitor, homicidal, incompetent, etcetera.

“Paterson spoke fondly of you often,” the man says. “He said you two were good friends when you were younger.”

“Oh?” Hamilton looks to Aaron and tilts his head. “Burr didn’t mention that.”

Aaron wishes Hamilton would _stop_ — he knows that Hamilton is trying to make this into something it isn’t, while he desperately wants to forget it all, bury it.

“We were in college together,” Aaron says, casual. “We were friendly. We kept in contact during the war, but we lost touch after.”

Hamilton starts to say something else, like he always does when he finds out that Aaron is capable of having a friend other than him, but he’s interrupted by one of the men’s war story, and thankfully the discussion of his friendship with Paterson is forgotten.

* * *

Hamilton tries his best to provoke Aaron into speaking on the way back to the inn, but Aaron won’t appease Hamilton’s need to talk his way through tension, so he gives minimal answers and when Hamilton asks if he’s okay, he doesn’t respond at all.

Hamilton angrily huffs and falls into silence.

Until they’re in their rented room and Hamilton shuts the door behind him, and locks it.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Hamilton asks. Demands. He steps closer to Aaron, touches his shoulder. “Burr?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Aaron shrugs off his coat, loosens his collar — it’s been choking him since he was at the cemetery. He’s beginning to think he liked it better when Hamilton wasn’t so familiar with his _feelings,_ when Hamilton believed he had none.

“Liar.” Hamilton stomps his foot, slams his cane on the floor, puts his hands on his hips — he’s mad. Why is he so mad? He isn’t the one who—

“Why won’t you tell me?” Hamilton asks. “Are you afraid—?”

Aaron grabs Hamilton by the shoulders, makes him _stop._

“Don’t,” Aaron says. “Don’t talk. Don’t ask questions. Just…don’t.”

He thinks he sees Hamilton’s eyes water at the corners, but he presses his mouth to Hamilton’s with a crash and Hamilton kisses him back with as much anguish, and then kisses him sweet enough to make it disappear.

* * *

After — after dropping their clothes on the floor and biting and scratching and bruising with hurried sex — they talk.

It’s late afternoon and they need to find somewhere to have supper and they need to gather their things so they can leave first thing in the morning, but they haven’t moved from the bed. Hamilton lies on his back with his arms stretched above his head and Aaron sits against the headboard and lights a cigar from the candle next to him. It’s a lovely moment, relaxed, and Aaron could let it go on, but —

“We were friends,” Aaron says. He smokes, blows out the smoke. “Paterson and me.”

“Hmm?” Hamilton looks up at him, confused, and clearly he had already forgotten about the topic from earlier. “That’s what you said, but I thought it was odd you didn’t mention it before we went. Is that why you’ve been acting so strange?”

“Yes,” Aaron says. “But there’s more to it.” He sighs, not knowing where to begin. He figures the beginning is always the best place. “We met in college. He was in his twenties and I was hardly fifteen.”

“You’re a smarty-pants.”

Aaron ignores him, and continues. “He took an instant liking to me and I was flattered. He was older and distinguished and one of the few students who didn’t immediately dismiss me because I was young. He made it his mission that I succeeded.”

Hamilton must sense that this is serious; he sits up against the headboard with Aaron and pulls the blanket over their laps, covering up them to their waist. Hamilton is warm and smells good, giving Aaron the comfort to tell this.

“Paterson was charming. He had this ability to make you like him,” Aaron says. “And I did like him.” Too much. There was a time he would have done anything for Paterson to like him in return, to keep him—

“He helped me. He told me which classes to take and who to befriend and how I should dress.” Aaron looks to his side at Hamilton. “It took me too long to realize that he was shaping me into his vision of what he wanted me to be.”

Hamilton knits his brows together. “Why did he care so much?”

“He said it was for my benefit, but it was more that he could do it,” Aaron says, and it’s all spilling out, like a skein of yarn coming unspooled. “I began to feel uncomfortable around him. I’ve never been very social—”

“Wow, really?” Hamilton says, sarcastic, but when Aaron frowns at him he shakes his head. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I thought I was being mistrustful because I was awkward. But it felt…inappropriate. Wrong.”

Hamilton grabs his arm, and he looks more disturbed than Aaron ever felt about the issue. “Did he…”

He doesn’t finish the question.

“No. It wasn’t anything like that.” Although, Aaron wonders, if he hadn’t been so strong willed, or if Paterson had asked…

Aaron puts his cigar out on the table.

“It was just odd things,” he says. “He instructed me how to dance. He told me my handwriting was too feminine, and then joked that if someone saw my letters to him they’d mistake me as his lover. He thought my voice wasn’t right. He wrote me about how he got the uncontrollable urge to masturbate.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah.” Aaron runs his hand over his head. “He wrote to me once that _the desire of making others happy will, to a generous mind, be the strongest incentive._ I think he thought I owed him — that I should make him happy in exchange for helping me. I couldn’t have graduated early without him.”

“And then what happened after you graduated?”

“I stayed,” Aaron says. “Leaving didn’t feel like an option. Getting my degree was my only goal, and when I obtained it, I didn’t know what else to do. So I stayed, waiting for something to happen. I continued to review my studies, and I was admitted into a few societies at college. I had friends and I was respected. I was doing well.”

But was he happy? He should’ve been.

“He was pleased with my decision to stay, of course. After that, things got more… I suppose he thought that I partly decided to stay because of him,” Aaron says, and he still isn’t sure it wasn’t a reason. “His actions became possessive. Monopolizing my time and telling me what to do. He liked to touch me — not like that, calm down, Alexander. Just on my arm, or on my hip. He did it freely when he was drunk, and said he couldn’t help himself because he’s an affectionate person.”

His skin still crawls thinking of it — the feeling of his hand on him, and knowing it would happen, and not being able to stop it even though he could’ve.

It looks as though Hamilton is going to say something, but Aaron doesn’t want to hear it whether it’s sympathy or anger that’s thirty years too late.

“But then there was the war, and I had a reason to leave,” Aaron says. “I intended to leave everything behind — college, my family, him. But he kept writing to me, and somehow found out where I was stationed. He scolded me for neglecting him. When I fell ill and was staying at Theodosia’s, he found me there. But she sent him away.” He smiles. “She told me that I wasn’t some kid he could boss around anymore. So, I let him go. We stayed in contact for a while after the war, but then I moved to New York and moved on with my life. He’d write to me sometimes, but then, the letters stopped. I guess he wasn’t invested if he couldn’t have me entirely. So I forgot about him.”

And yet — here he was, brought back at the end of Paterson’s life.

“But as soon as you mentioned him yesterday, I had this overwhelming memory of him — his smell, his hand on my arm — and I froze.”

Aaron turns to Hamilton, who has been exceptionally silent, and that makes Aaron feel worse. He’s probably thinking he’s a disgusting coward for letting someone control him like that. Aaron wouldn’t blame him. He thinks he’s a coward.

But Hamilton doesn’t. He can’t by the way he kisses him, tender and strong at the same time and somehow doesn’t make Aaron feel like he’s being pitied. Hamilton puts his hand to Aaron’s face and draws him in, telling him things he cannot say with words.

Aaron pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I might’ve been wrong about it. He was my mentor and I liked him at times. I was probably making some of it up—”

“No,” Hamilton says. “I wish he weren’t dead so I could challenge him to duel and kill him.”

“How romantic,” Aaron says.

God, he likes Hamilton so much. He would be difficult to give up.

“We should leave,” Aaron says. He rubs Hamilton’s leg, where he knows it pains him.

Hamilton puts his hand over Aaron’s. “Alright,” he says, and there is no argument. He gets out of the bed, stretches, and goes off in search of his breeches from the day previous. Aaron watches him, and sees how Hamilton keeps looking over to him, as if he were worried about him.

This is one of those times where Aaron wishes Hamilton would talk more.

* * *

The journey home is uneventful. Hamilton sleeps through a majority of it, resting on Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron wonders if he does this so he doesn’t have to worry about deciding if he should discuss what Aaron shared with him in their room in Albany. It seems like something Hamilton would do.

Aaron lets him sleep. He doesn’t want Hamilton to _think_ he wants to discuss it.

Dreams crop up, disturbing Hamilton’s peaceful slumber — and Aaron’s solitude. Hamilton mumbles something in French about cake. In the moonlight gleaming through the tiny carriage window, Aaron sees Hamilton is smiling.

At least it’s not a bad dream. They both have too many of those.

“Burr,” Hamilton says, clear, and for a moment Aaron thinks he’s awake but he isn’t — his eyes are closed and he’s drooling on Aaron’s coat and his face is relaxed as it only is when asleep and his mind has given into rest.

Hamilton thinks Aaron is a good person, but he’s wrong — his previous opinion of him was more accurate. _Despicable._ Aaron must be, or all these terrible things wouldn’t happen to him. He believes in God enough to believe that.

* * *

 

Eliza is the only soul awake when they arrive home after two in the morning. Perhaps she has some sort of innate sense of when Hamilton is near. Hamilton kisses her as soon as he’s through the door, open-mouthed with his hands on her hips — but then they seem to remember Aaron is there, and they part from each other. Aaron doesn’t know why they bother, as he’s seen them together in the most intimate act between a husband and wife.

But Eliza blushes and smiles at Aaron, welcomes him back, and then hurries off to make them some tea. Left alone in the foyer, they turn to each other.

“Well,” Hamilton says. “Since we rested on the way home, I have a few activities in mind.”

He waggles his brows and does a little shimmy with his chest.

“ _You_ rested,” Aaron says. “I was able to hear my thoughts while you drooled on my best traveling coat.”

Hamilton is refreshed, the dark circles under his eyes faded slightly and he doesn’t look tired, which makes him look about five years younger than he usually does. He’s annoyingly cheerful, which Aaron knows has nothing to do with the rest at all — he’s overcompensating for how distressed he feels.

Hamilton is upset about _him_ and he was perfectly fine about it all, but Hamilton has to be awkward about it, like he doesn’t know what to do with him, and that makes Aaron feel terrible all over again.

“Hey.” Hamilton hooks his finger in the waistband of Aaron’s breeches. “Why so quiet? Don’t be shy,” he says, and he goes in for a kiss but—

—Aaron pushes him away.

Hamilton stumbles back, puts a hand over his mouth where Aaron didn’t kiss him and has a mix of hurt and confusion and Aaron can’t stand to look at him.

“You’re really obtuse sometimes,” Aaron says, and pushes past Hamilton, leaving him to try and figure out what just happened. He probably won’t, knowing him.

Aaron goes upstairs, taking the last two stairs at one time, and goes to his room. Slings his coat into the chair, and then kicks the chair for good measure. He curses Hamilton for being so stupid, but no, _he’s_ the stupid one — he’s the one who thought everything would be okay, he’s the one who likes Hamilton so much he doesn’t know what he’d do without him, he’s the one who keeps letting his feelings get in the way—

“Aaron.”

He spins around. Eliza is there in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of tea, and looking at him with one of her unreadable expressions. He wonders if she aquired that before, or after marrying Hamilton.

“Tell me you aren’t running away,” she says, her voice low.

“I don’t _run_ away,” Aaron retorts, and Eliza doesn’t flinch at all at his raised voice. He repeats, “I don’t,” although all evidence shows otherwise.

“Alright.” Eliza walks into his room, sits on the edge of his bed, and pats the space next to her, asking him to join her. “Then tell me what’s wrong.”

He does sit, and accepts the tea she hands him. It’s an herbal tea, and with one drink he already feels calmer, but he thinks it has more to do with Eliza’s presence. He goes to take another sip but his hand shakes. He sets it aside on the night table, wipes his sweaty palms on his pant legs.

“It’s…,” Aaron begins, trailing off. He can’t tell her about what he told Hamilton — that’s nothing for a lady to worry about — and _that_ isn’t really his problem anyway. He’s coped with that; it’s just a thing that happened to him.

“It’s Alexander,” Aaron says, pausing when Eliza lightly laughs — and he finds himself laughing, too. “Honestly! Sometimes the man is quite dense. He thinks that when I’m upset, he can fix everything with just his sweet talk and a kiss.”

“He doesn’t handle other people’s feelings well,” Eliza says. Then, “Especially people he cares for.”

He doesn’t deny that Hamilton cares for him — they’d both know that is a lie.

“I think sometimes he just doesn’t want to understand,” Aaron says. “It’s easier for him.”

Eliza nods. “He said that he made you mad but he doesn’t know what he did, but he didn’t mean whatever he might have did or said.”

“He never does,” Aaron says. “He’s — sorry, I shouldn’t insult your husband in your company.”

“Go ahead. He is rather dense.”

Aaron laughs. It’s so easy to talk to her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that I’m a bother.”

“Aaron Burr,” Eliza says. “Stop that nonsense right now.”

“No, let me explain.”

Eliza falls silent, and he continues. “I’m sorry that I’ve come into your home, and between you and Alexander. You say that it isn’t a problem, but I see how you look at us when Alexander and I are together. I’ll end it, if necessary. I don’t deserve him anyway, or your kindness. I’m a terrible person. Bad things happen to me for a reason, and I — I don’t know if I could ever stop these feelings I have for Alexander, and I can’t stop thinking of when you kissed me and…I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

She’s blushing, high in her cheeks, and she looks away from him for a moment and Aaron realizes he shouldn’t have said anything about how he feels about _her,_ but she returns her gaze to him, brave.

“Hush,” she says, scolding. “This thing with you and Alexander has made things difficult, but not impossible. It has brought good into all of our lives. You and I are friends, and our daughters are in love. And you and Alexander being together keeps you from killing each other.”

“Hilarious,” Aaron says, deadpan.

“I think he would have challenged you to another duel if you didn’t admit that you liked him.”

Odd, because Aaron thought Hamilton was the one who had the problem admitting it.

“He would have gotten over me, eventually,” he says.

Eliza smiles at him.

“Life is short,” she says. “Why not have what you want?”

“Because I shouldn’t.”

“Only you think that,” Eliza says.

And in the next breath she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. It lasts longer than the first one she gave him at their homecoming from Europe, out on the lawn in front of everyone. She places her lips on his cheekbone and puts her hand to his chest and Aaron forgets how to breathe for a second and his thoughts go all fuzzy, and when his breath and coherence returns to him, she’s still kissing him.

He backs off, clears his throat. Eliza lets out a sigh, like she’s disappointed in him.

“Go to him,” she says, quiet. “He’s sulking in his office.”

Again, she is encouraging him to seek out Hamilton.

She stands, brushes off her skirt, like she’s done hard work.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, and leaves before Aaron can find the courage to disagree with her.

* * *

Hamilton is indeed sulking in his office. He left the door open, his way of telling Aaron that he wants to talk to him. Aaron stands in the doorway for a moment, just looking at Hamilton — he’s in a chair next to the window, gazing wistfully outside, his mouth parted like he’s deep in thought. The moonlight makes his jawline look sharper than it is — for Aaron knows it well, it’s one of his favorite places to kiss — and his dark hair is blue-toned, the color that Aaron imagines is the bottom of the ocean.

Aaron feels as though he’s gone overboard and sank.

“Alex.”

Hamilton acts surprised as though he didn’t know Aaron was there, or maybe he didn’t know, but he stands and Aaron sees how he looks unsure, but Aaron isn’t. He may not know some things — why poisonous flowers are some of the most beautiful, the complexities of life and death and love — but in regards to Hamilton, he is sure. It doesn’t matter what happened.

Aaron kisses him in the moonlight. He takes Hamilton’s face between his hands and kisses that perfect mouth, and Hamilton gasps against his and for a moment they share a breath before they go in for more — at the same time, and they bump their noses together. They laugh, and Aaron takes the opportunity to lick Hamilton’s lip, tasting him. Hamilton lets out a broken whimper and he places his hands on Aaron’s chest, leans into him and kisses him so honestly that Aaron’s mouth tingles like he ate citrus, but richly sweet like a spoonful of honey. He wonders if this is what drowning feels like — bliss, luring you to oblivion.

He’s even more certain after, when Hamilton looks at him as confidently as he feels.

“ _Oh._ ” Hamilton’s face is flushed. “What was that for?”

Aaron tucks Hamilton’s hair behind his ear where it’s fallen across his face. “Must you ask?”

“No,” Hamilton says, “but I like to hear you say it.”

So, Aaron tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!!!!  
> \- Von Steuben was a Prussian who came to America and helped with their war tactics and helped win the war. It was speculated that he was gay, with a quote in a letter written later "abominable rumor which accused Von Steuben of a crime the suspicion of which, at another more exalted court of that time (as formerly among the Greeks) would hardly have aroused such attention.” But also apparently the dude rode up to meet Washington in a sleigh with 24 bells and had a robe with silk and fur, so, you know. Obviously. Anyway, the story about him taking in John Mulligan and Charles Adams is true. ([x](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/nicholas-sheppard/the-gay-man-who-saved-the_b_7838506.html))  
> \- Charles Adams did have disagreements with his father, Charles Adams. There is speculation that Charles might have been having a gay relationship. A year before he died, John Adams disowned him, but it's thought mostly to have been from him being an embarrassing drunk and poorly spending his money.  
> \- there was a post on tumblr about how Hamilton wrote while on horseback. I don't doubt it at all, or at least that he attempted to.  
> \- so, the stuff about Paterson. Mostly true, sadly. I drew some conclusions, but overall there was a uncomfortable vibe. Guy was very creepy towards Burr — he did tell him his handwriting was too girly and said someone might think he has an affair, he did scold him for not writing him enough, he told him his voice was too high-pitched for a man and then instructed how he should speak, and he did kind of go out of his way to go to where Burr was, hanging around Theodosia's and such. He wrote about his urge to "write" and how it overcame him and idk it sounded like a metaphor for masturbating to me. It all was very uncomfortable to read. All their letters are in [this free memoir about Burr](http://www.freeinfosociety.com/media/pdf/4328.pdf)

**Author's Note:**

> you can always talk to me over at tumblr @[acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com) about Hamilton things!


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